


West

by yourfavoriteweapon



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2019-09-28 21:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17190467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfavoriteweapon/pseuds/yourfavoriteweapon
Summary: Aden. Soldier and rebel. I help people escape.Getting people out used to be difficult. But as of late, it's pretty much impossible. I can't take runaways north, at least as of now. So instead, I'm taking them west.Let's go.





	1. One

Where sunshine flecks the green,  
Through towering woods my way  
Goes winding all the day. 

Scant are the flowers that bloom  
Beneath the bosky screen  
And cage of golden gloom.  
Few are the birds that call,  
Shrill-voiced and seldom seen. 

Where silence masters all,  
And light my footsteps fall,  
The whispering runnels only  
With blazing noon confer;  
And comes no breeze to stir  
The tangled thickets lonely. 

\- Dream-Forest by Siegfred Sassoon. The Old Huntsman and Other Poems, 1918

I awake.

First, there is the usual semi-darkness of the sleeping bag. But it is not really dark I quickly realize, as bright sunlight shines through the thick material, indicating morning. Time? Watch says 7:44.  


Hmm.

I savor another moment inside the sleeping bag. The inside is warm and has a certain snug to it. The nylon, or polyester, or whatever this thing was made of hugs and caresses me. It was almost like being in a warm bed. Almost. How I longed for a bed. Alone or shared, it didn't matter. I wanted a room, and a bed. I could still remember my room. The digital clock which shone bright blue at night, the gentle glow of my computer screen, and the smell of eggs and bacon in the morning.

Yet I noticed something, as I closed my eyes, and a wave of sleepiness came over me. I was...comfortable. Despite everything. The mud, the blood, the cold, the wet, and all of the other bullshit that came with my situation. I was comfortable.

Generally, being out in the field for this long was the antithesis to comfortable. You were either too hot or too cold. You were sweaty, tired, and most of all dirty. So dirty. The dirt was everywhere. It went into your nails, blanketed your clothes, dissolved into your skin. And it was surprisingly easy to mistakenly eat. Well, yeah, these berries are pretty damn good, but let a breeze bring some dirt from some fucking tree branch down on your food and next thing you know you're chewing on fucking rocks. Ugh, fuck the field. 

It's dirty food which brings me out of my daydreams and back to business. The mission, remember the mission.

But fuck business, it's not even 8 o'clock yet. I probably shouldn't head out until noon or so. The site was about mile and a half away, and the road, another quarter or so away from that. But I didn't want to think about that. Not yet, I still had lots of time to sleep. To bask in the comfort. I hear a gentle wave of wind outside. 

But the food. Eating. Hmm. Food. I realized I was hungry.

It was a relatively familiar feeling now. Since I'd been out in the field, acquiring food had become a complicated venture. I either had to hunt, or pick food off the porches of resistance-friendly homes. The former was less risky, but the latter, oh so much better. People went all out. Bread, fruit, meat. Fresh meat. I mean, I had tried my best to cook the deer, fox, or whatever decent sized animal had found the center of my rifle’s crosshairs. But it wasn’t the same. I either undercooked or overcooked, and on a few instances, I found all the hard work of hunting, killing, and skinning the animal just ended up in me throwing the thing back up. 

Gross.

See, I'm from the city. I mean yeah, I had been taught survival skills but, I was just an amateur. The people who had lived out here all their lives knew how to hunt, cook, and eat to a T. It was difficult to comprehend, the way people lived out here, out in the boonies. 

Anyways, it was interesting how households always knew where the rebels were, and when to leave them spare pickings. I concluded that people’s elaborate way of leaving food, often well-hidden under the house but well-secured from wild animals or prying Guardians, was their way of saying thank you. As it sometimes said on sticky notes left behind.

You're damn welcome. 

I sigh, and adjust myself slightly. I embrace the comfort, because there isn't much of it out here. I had about four hours with nothing other to do, except to eat and shit really. So, I lay my head back, as well as unzip my sleeping bag ever so slightly. I'm actually starting to get a little hot in this thing. I feel the cool air rush in.

Better. 

The forest was…quiet. Not dead silent, but quiet. I could feel, and hear, a faint breeze. There are birds chirping, and two squirrels on a tree branch rustling around. One chases the other, while the other jumps around avoiding it. Sunlight sparkled on the red and brown trees, giving them halos of sorts. It’s almost as if these objects of nature were people’s spirits in disguise. Maybe it was how all the dead reincarnated. There were more than enough trees in this world to hold them all. 

I gaze up into the sky. And the birds, they chatter endlessly away. Life for them was normal, I suppose. While the country tore itself to shreds, life for them continued as always. Eat, fuck, fly, and die. I laugh to myself. Whenever life got bad, I wished I was just a wild animal, whose sole purpose was to survive and reproduce. It just sounded so…simple. Find food, find a mate, do something stupid and die. Too easy. 

Well, not really too easy. If anything, being out here had been a sobering reality check. Finding food and water, enough to feed a human and clean enough to not make me sick, was kind of a bitch. 

Oh well.

I, again, stare deeply into the morning sky. A deep blue. The cold air briefly stings my eyes, but I do not flinch. I had long gotten used to that. I again see the treetops, cast in the sun’s yellow. The earth breathed. As did I. I. And it was...beautiful. It was as if the world wasn't that fucked up after all. I guess it would be less so, if humans had never existed. But I don't know. 

For once, there is no war, killing, pain, or suffering. There is only the forest. I try to become one with it. And I can think, in complete peace, as to how things are. Or wonder how things could have been. Or contemplate my day. It would be a big one. But for now, as I stare aimlessly out into world, I feel like remembering. Remembering felt nice. Wondering about alternate futures sometimes felt good but you ultimately knew it was bullshit. There was no turning back the clock. And contemplating the day, well I explained how really didn’t want to think about it. And thinking about the here and now, useful, but miserable. (to any readers fortunate enough to have never experienced the Republic of Gilead, you’re a lucky bastard)

But remembering. That felt good, or bad. It was both the best, and the worst. I got to remember all the good times I’d had. The good times we had had. It made me feel grateful I had lived such an amazing life, at least to a point. But...it also felt terrible. Because the more I remembered, the more I realized the things I’d lost. But the clutch factor is realism. It’s real. My memories, good or bad, best or worst, were real. It was easy to get lost in fantasy in endless hours of dormancy and inactivity, which was pretty much my life right now. It felt good to remember things that were real. Like…the sky. The sky is real. The sky spawns a memory. An early one. 

Of the world…before.


	2. Two

_“Soyons fermes, purs et fidèles; au bout de nos peines, il y a la plus grande gloire du monde, celle des hommes qui n'ont pas cédé._ [English translation: Let us be firm, pure and faithful; at the end of our sorrow, there is the greatest glory of the world, that of the men who did not give in.]”

 _–_ Charles de Gaulle, _Bastille Day_ speech, July 1943

I look up.

It's the morning, and the sky looks like it. The sky is blue. Bright blue. The sun shines that certain way it does in the morning, east to west. I glance at my shadow, a very dark gray on light concrete ground.

And I look, straight ahead.

There is first the hill. Not a particularly big hill, but it was..long. It crossed my field of vision. It was covered with trees, which were colored a rich deep green. It must be spring…or summer. There is also houses spotted along the hill. Big houses, two, three stories. Then I felt...desire. I wished I lived there. Those houses were super nice. But closer to me...is a playground. Handball, with colorful bouncy balls darting through the air. And even closer, is a makeshift baseball diamond on the light grey concrete. Except, they're playing kickball. The voices of playing children fall over my sense of hearing.

I wanna play kickball.

What year had that been? 1st grade? 3rd? It had been a long time. Every year of elementary school there had been a sport most of the kids in our grade focused on. 1st grade...I think it was handball. I knew for a fact 3rd was basketball, and 4th was soccer. 2nd grade was...kickball. 2nd grade. I am in second grade.

Sneakers. I like my sneakers. Blue, that's my best color!

How old am I? Seven!

I run over to the diamond and take my place in line to kick (as a quick count reveals it was the kicking team who was down a player). I had always been smart like that. Thinking ahead.

"HELLO!"

"Hi Will!"

Will was my best friend. Well, he is my best friend. I went to go play with him last weekend. Will was nice, he let me play on his Xbox when Mom took mine away.

"Your turn Will!"

Will goes up to kick. And he does. He's small but has a strong leg. Soccer players were good at kickball. The black and white soccer ball goes flying into the sun, like a rocket into space. Home run! Wow! That thing went far.

Kind of like a mortar.

What's a mortar?

I shake my head. Wow, I used to be so little.

"Hey Aden! Batter up!"

I go up in front of the plate. I see the big bunch of bushes which surround the far end of the playground. The sunlight casts of them, giving them halos. Angels watching. You go to heaven after you die.

And the ball is rolling. And I'm running! I kick it! It's...an okay kick. It goes right up the middle to where center field is. I dart to first base, but that's as far as I can go. My hair tosses and turns as I sprint. And I'm at first base.

"Who's next?"

I look at the world around me. What was for lunch? I hoped it wasn't that gross pizza again. Ew. I liked chicken! Yes! The chicken was awesome. The chicken, the sounds of my friends playing, the sky. School was bad sometimes, but not all the time. I feel...safe.

I like everyone. There were no bad guys here and no -

The soccer ball smashes me dead in the face. It sounds like a gunshot.

\---

I awake with a violent quake. I'm sitting up, staring into the small opening in the sleeping bag.

God damn, what a dream.

I had been a kid again. Second grade. Well, briefly, it was in and out. I had been...switching. Between my child mind and adult mind. But my child mind. I had felt...innocent. No, I didn't feel that way. I was that way. All I was thinking about was just school and kickball. Nothing else. No worrying about getting hurt or what people thought of me. Just...I don't know.

Life had been so much simpler back then.

I exhale. It had been an entire vivid memory. I remembered my school. The trees, the hill that I'd always wanted to live on but we never could afford it. And the kickball, the children. And Will. Damn Will. The soccer ball though, that was false. I once had been hit in the side of the head by a basketball, but that had nowhere near the firepower from that dream soccer ball. It was a gunshot. Boom. Dead.

That was probably how life would end for me, as long as I was out here. I had always wondered...if you get shot square in the head, do you hear the shot? Probably...not, a bullet was too fast. Well, actually, it probably depended on where the bullet hit you. I mean yeah, you were probably fucked but, there had been plenty of people who survived getting shot in the head. It must depend on what part of the brain in cuts through.

This is the type of random bullshit I think about all the time, instead of doing anything useful. Hmm. What time is it? At least a few hours gone by, as the sun had moved considerably through the sky. But I got the feeling it was still morning.

10:54.

I still had like...an hour or so. I then felt a sharp stab of hunger. And thirst. Damn... what could I eat and drink? What do you eat when you have no food? Edible plants, animals. You find that shit.

I explained how finding food and water was difficult. There was a river not too far from here. I should probably head out, get a drink there and -

That's when there's rustling.

Movement.

Sleeping bag unzipped. Rifle. Barrel through the hole.

I take a look.

Just a squirrel.

I exhale. Didn't seem like a bad choice for breakfast. And it was right there. It stood there, perfectly still, an acorn in its hands. And I can see one of it's eyes. A black bead with the sun glinting off it, giving it a white orb. It was like a human eye in reverse, black filling white pupil. It sits there, almost like it's waiting to see what I'm going to do next.

I want to shoot, but I hesitate. The reason, is the sound. This rifle, was loud. I mean, I had a silencer which I could grab from my assault pack, but I would probably lose my chance. The second I made a major the motherfucker would probably run back into the trees. And there would go my breakfast. But a loud gunshot could call out my position.

It might lead to my capture.

And capture...meant death.

Capture meant being hung on some wall until your body decomposed. Well, there might be some shit before that. Interrogation, torture; they'd do their best to beat some information about the ungodly activities acting against the government out of me before then, but the end result was the same. If I got captured, I was dead. Just like everyone else who rebelled.

Anyone who somehow opposed Gilead's all fucked up version of Christianity was liable to die.

Those fucking scumbags.

Fucking hell I didn't want to think anymore. I was hungry, and wanted to eat.

I climb my way out of the sleeping bag onto the cool autumn dirt without giving a shit about the squirrel. It darts its way up a tree and onto the first branch, still well within distance. I go into my lame excuse for an assault pack and grab the silencer, attaching it to my weapon.

The squirrel is again frozen on the branch, a single black eye staring at me.

I almost laugh at its ignorance; little guy was about to become my breakfast. But instead of some animal, I picture it as something else. A certain person. No...a thing. I picture the squirrel as Gilead itself. I am going to aim at, shoot at, and kill Gilead.

Mission, remember the mission.

In many ways, that was the mission. Aim, shoot, and kill.

I aim. I breath out.

_Crack._

The squirrel falls.

But, admittedly, that wasn’t the entire mission. The mission was also to search, recover, and/or rescue.

And that’s what I was going to do today. Rescue.


	3. Three

“ _It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin._ ” – Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_ , 5th century BC

The leaves and crack and snap.

Crack, snap. Crack, snap. That's all it is. Rhythm. I slowly, but surely, make my way up the hill, rifle in hand, pack on my back. 12:37.

Twenty-three minutes.

I was early, like I always was. Almost too early, it seemed. I had always had this anxiety about being early. Growing up, it had never been possible for me to be late to anything. School, a gathering of friends or family, appointments. Late was not an option. And whenever I was late, it gave a me an itchy feeling of anxiety that I couldn't get rid of, even if I had a legitimate excuse.  
Today was no exception.

The sun slowly leans to the western end of the sky, as afternoon slowly began to set in on the world. Afternoon. That had always been my favorite time of day, much more-so than morning. I didn't know why, but the world looked...prettier. The way the leaves shone on the dying trees, or the way the wind blew. I also preferred it because of people's attitudes. By one or two o'clock most seemed to shake off the morning blues and were less rude and irritable. But that's just my personal opinion.

As per usual, my mind is off in the clouds as...I realized I've made it to the top of the hill.

I begin to set up shop, a small camouflaged position, deep between a stack of dying bushes and a large pile of autumn leaves. It overlooks the road which I am about to shoot down. The mission was simple. Shoot, kill, rescue. In about twenty minutes, there would be a Guardian squad car headed northward, on this road. Well, not a car, a van. Attention to detail, he heard the voice of a distant drill sergeant from years prior. Yes, this van would be headed northward on the road at a modest speed. A Guardian - or Angel - would drive it, and another would be in the passenger seat.

And in the back, the cargo.

The cargo is a captured Handmaid.

I knew nothing about her other than that she would be in the back of the van, mouth bound shut with those disturbing white mouth guards which Gilead often used for prisoners. She would be either on the right side, or left side bench.

  
Which side? I have no fucking idea.

However, more than likely the left. The left side was considered unholy. It was interesting, almost, how deeply the Giledean mindset had set in to their daily lives. Wrongdoers usually went on the left side of the van. My guess story on this Handmaid is that she had tried to escape, failed, and was on her way to being executed. Hung, bullet to the head, I don't know. Or...they could be bringing her back home. Handmaids were a commodity, after all. With most of the country's fertility rate totally in the shitter, Gilead needed any baby they could get. If anything, it was understandable they were making the effort to drive her somewhere instead of just blowing her head off in the woods like they did to the others that tried to flee. The farther away you got from Boston or New York, the less common randomly appearing dead bodies were.

It was because of...example.

If they were going to kill her, probably wanted to make an example out of her, likely to one of the smaller border towns which didn't really see executions. The loyalty of towns in the border regions was important to them. In their minds, the more "Godly discipline" they instilled onto those towns, the more likely they thought the people would help them. In actuality, all the Godly discipline was just causing more towns to rebel.

Those towns were also important because that's where I was taking the Handmaid, to pass her off to some Quakers or whoever gave the signal.

But back to the van. The reason her being on the left side is because that's where the driver drove the damn thing. A bullet to his head might mean a bullet in her head too. That was something that hadn't happened before, and that was rather surprising. Every set of bullets given to me seemed to be more penetrative on the last.

And the other wildcard...may be a third, or fourth Guardian. Gilead wasn't stupid. They knew rebels and guerrillas often lurked around the more remote parts of the United States, and the New England forest was no exception. Another man or two might be kept in the back in case the driver and passenger were incapacitated.

It was no long shot (pun not intended) to expect that this rescue may turn into a firefight.

And...the key to firefights was simple. Neutralize ASAP. If I gave them time to call any backup, I was fucked. Although I was deep in the boonies, if you pissed off Gilead enough, yes, they would comb and pick through the forest until they found the culprit. Helicopters, drones, low-flying planes were often the weapon of choice. And I'd be up on the wall. Or blown to hell by a rocket or hand grenade. Hell, rumor was they also used napalm. I heard a story about the Angels incinerating a whole square mile of forest in California just to smoke out a suspected defector.

Death by burning alive. I wondered how it compared to the other execution methods...hanging, stoning, drowning.

Either way, you usually ended up on a wall of some sort.

Just like the lawyers. Doctors. Professors. Not just those, lawmakers, artists, punk rockers, misfits, mentally disabled, LGBT, drug users, "religious heretics". And religion heretics meant anyone who practiced anything else other than Gilead's version of Christianity. Muslims, Buddhists, Catholics, Hindus, Jews...

I remember in silent sadness what they did to a good portion of the American Jewish population.

Just a few weeks after the second war ended and they had solidified control of the east coast, the government demanded all individuals of Jewish heritage register in a database. And then, shortly after that, they promised that all of the Jewish population had the choice of converting or being safely returned to Israel. Obviously, most chose to leave, I mean, America had been pretty fucked at that point. The American government was still reeling and disorganized, the military was still all fucked up. If you were Jewish, at least at that time, you were lucky.

But back to the point. There was a massive Jewish diaspora to the eastern port cities. Miami, Baltimore, New York, the like. And there, they were put on ships to be sent back to Israel. Hundreds of thousands of innocent people got on those ships.

The count was 11,797. That's how many people actually made it to the docks in Tel Aviv.

The rest? No one knows what happened to them. They just disappeared. Gone. Hundreds of thousands - no, millions. Probably millions of dead. The rumor was they riddled the ships with bombs and sunk them in the Atlantic. Yep. That's the type of world I was living in now. What the fuck. It made me angry. Not just angry. Pissed the fuck off. Furious. Enraged. I didn't have any regrets of what I was about to do.

12:57, three minutes ‘til go time.

Or earlier, or later.

As if on cue, I hear the sound of a vehicle. Distant, but I can hear it. My hearing has always been superb.

Go time.

My heart leaps in my throat. I'm actually about to kill someone. No, people.

Hopefully, it was not the Handmaid.

I wouldn't have an innocent person die because of me.

This is when things start to move in slow motion.

The van turns the corner.

I can see the blur through the scope, but the thing is still too far away. Need to wait until...the sign. A square street sign faces opposite the direction of the van. The sign is within shooting distance.

There's my mark.

I wait.

And wait.

I aim.

Slowly...their faces come into view.

The passenger. Older. Bearded. Sunglasses.

The driver. Younger. Short, cropped haircut. Beady brown eyes.

Wow, he was young as hell. He looked to be my age. No more than twenty probably.

I feel regret. I could have gone to school with him.

Suddenly, I'm back on the range. _HESITATION IS DEATH! IF YOU HESITATE, CHANCES ARE YOU'LL DIE SCREAMING!_

Yet he was the enemy. What had the enemy done? To this country?

To be honest, this isn’t my first kill.

And sadly, it more than likely won’t be the last.

I'm ready.

Pull...

Crack.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I am aware that Handmaids are actually "trained" in Red Centers, are just trained by Aunts, etc. There will be some misnomers in this chapter because I want to illustrate that character(s) not under control of the regime may have missing/incorrect information about what life in Gilead is like. To me, it seems to be at least somewhat of a secretive lifestyle to the outside world.

_"Memories keep coming back and the tears just flow."_

\- Harunori Okoshi, Japanese WWII veteran

The windshield shatters. A mass of blood explodes in the seat. The car veers off to the side of the road, quickly approaching a large and foreboding ditch. In the scope, I see the passenger frantically leap over the driver's dead body to take control of the vehicle before it goes completely off the road. The van slows, but not much. Damn, thing was doing 50 at least. I lock the bolt to the rear, ready to fire again.

But a moving target was harder to hit.

I decide to wait. Had to save bullets.

His steering effort is initially successful, as the van swerves away from the ditch. However, it quickly turns into an overcorrection, as the van skids loudly into the middle of the street. It then careens into a tree on the other side of the road, hitting it pretty much head on.

Bang.

There are no airbags. My target lurches forward, briefly disappearing from view, but seems to hold himself, seemingly to prevent himself from going too far forward. Why? For some reason, he keeps himself in plain sight.

Dude, you just killed yourself.

He doesn't move.

I don't give him time to react.

Exhale.

Crack.

He slumps forward, and his hands fall free from the steering wheel. The remains of his head and body rest on the driver's lap.

Dead.

And that's when I really exhale.

At least temporarily. There could be a third.

I needed to kill him before he had the chance to call for help.

I find myself running down the small elevation. Sprinting, actually, I'm surprised I don't slip and fall on my face. I sling my rifle and pull out my handgun. I cock the old M9. It couldn't fail me.

Move move move!

I'm on the dirt, then the road, pretty much running toward the crashed van. Adrenaline pours through my veins. That Handmaid better not come out, the first movement I see coming out that truck is gonna get filled with holes. The back door doesn't move. Good sight. Hopefully the impact knocked his ass out. Closer...closer... Then, there is a sound. It makes me stop dead in my tracks.

It's a baby. Crying. Wah, wahhh....

The sound is muffled through the walls of the van, but I can hear it clearly. I'm now about twenty feet or so in front of the van. The vehicle is jet black except for the grey marked Eye on it. It was an Eye van. That's what they called the secret police. The Eyes of God.

Wah, wahhhh....

My approach turns from quick and hasty to slow and very, very cautious. Not only could someone be holding a Handmaid hostage in there, but a baby too.  I didn't want two people to die because of me. Slow, steady steps...closer...

A gust of wind blows. The leaves and trees rustle.

And I'm beside the van, right next to it.

Wahhhhh....

I press my ear up to the wall.

My heart feels like it’s going to explode.

This is where the all-clear code comes into play. The all-clear is the signal the rescued will give to the rescuer saying that the person being rescued was safe. Or more broadly, it could be any sign denoting communication between or among rebel groups. It was the hallmark of the Underground Femaleroad. The signal could be anything, a candle in a window, a certain colored towel laid to dry on a clothesline. What I was waiting for was three taps on the van wall, three times. Three sets of three. Any other signal would denote someone was alive in there and holding them hostage.

And that's what I'm doing now, waiting. Any other taps and I might as well prepare for -

Thunk thunk thunk.

The world stops.

Thunk thunk thunk.

Pause.

Thunk thunk thunk.

An enormous, thick weight seeps away from my body and soul. Holy shit...is all I can think. I'm in the clear. Except for that crying baby, of course. That was...suspicious. I hadn't been given any instructions about a baby.

Now it was time to give the OK response. Help was here. Thunk thunk thunk. Pause. Thunk thunk thunk. I then move over to the back of the van and give the last three thunks. The door was locked from the outside.

I wait. My heart rate goes up again.

But one of the double doors opens with a swing.

And on the other side is a woman. Grey wife clothing, and sure enough a baby in her arms.

Shit.

"Hi," I say in the lightest, friendliest way possible. This would, assuming if it went smoothly, my fourth and fifth rescue. I hadn't known many Handmaids, but they were all levels of scarred, traumatized, and disturbed. Captivity in the Handmaid Centers, ritual rape, abuse of all types. My last rescue was mute - she was too scared to speak. That's how bad the Aunts and Wives and whoever else was in charge fucked them up. To the point where their mouths might have well been sealed shut with wire.

You couldn't blame them.

My greeting is met with initial silence. The woman's face is stoic and flat. But I can see emotion in her eyes. Fear. I can see fear in her bright blue eyes. I, admittedly, wasn't the best at dealing with victims of trauma. But I was decent at getting them out of Gilead, I guess. Three for three. I had gotten two to the border, and one to another party on the Femaleroad. She got out, I had found out later. I manage to muster words.

"You, uh, can come out when you'd like. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

The truth was, as relaxed as I sounded, I wasn't. I wanted to get away from the scene as quickly as possible, at least a mile away. The farther we got from two dead Guardians, the better. I said Gilead didn't always track down assailants of its foot soldiers. But whenever it involved a Handmaid, they were bound to at least make an attempt to look.

It. made things all the more complicated.

But there was also the mental stability of the Handmaid. I didn't want to -

"No... it’s okay." She quickly sits up, and drops from the van to the road, baby cradled in her left arm. The baby whines a little, but has quieted considerably as she pets the baby with her free hand.

The more I stared at the little human child the more I realized...how the hell are we going to care for him or her? Babies cried. They shit, they smelled. And they always had to eat. How the hell did she even have a baby? Fertility disaster and all, she had a baby, that I assumed was healthy. That in itself was a miracle.

I notice in the middle of the van is a small crate. Looks like it'd be something designed for an animal. A little pink crib is in there. Damn. She got far out enough to where they didn't even get the kid a baby car. That was SOP for Gilead. Newborns travelled in specially designed ambulances.

And did I say babies cried? They cried all the time.

I mean, cute as babies could be, a baby could get all three of us killed.

"The baby - "

"Probably wasn't in your message, I know. But she's with me, now."

I nod. I prepare a response, but she speaks before I can.

"And she doesn't leave," the woman says in a low and angry voice.

You don't get to take her away."

Her voice has a firmness and viciousness I had never seen with anyone being rescued from Gilead.

And I can immediately tell, this woman is tough. She has strength, resolve, and determination. She may be afraid, damaged, fucked up. but she was also fierce. You can tell she meant it with every ounce in her being.

Probably because the kid was hers. I mean, I wasn't a woman, but I knew almost all mothers had difficulties leaving their children. That was one of the several things so fucked up about the Handmaid system. Woman were forced to abandon their children. I didn't know how it worked precisely, how the babies were eventually separated from the Handmaids. But I knew it was a thing.

I give her a slight, reassuring, smile. Maybe this rescue would be a better one, despite the unforeseen second individual.

"Damn right I don't." I respond. And give her a slight smile, which she doesn't returns, but she nods in affirmation. We have an immediate understanding. I might as well continue with a little mission brief as to what we’re going to do now. "We have about a six mile hike to the safe house. As long as we stay course, keep on track, we should get there before it dark. That's my goal."

She looks down at the baby, and then at the forest, which stands next to us. "How's the walk?"

"Not that bad. Few rough patches here and there, it’s not entirely on trail.”

She sighs. "Well, every step is another one closer to Canada...I guess. Let's go with the nice man, Holly." The baby makes a small sound, almost as if she was approving her caregiver's remark.

Holly. That was a cool name.

~~~

Crack snap, crack snap, the usual sounds of forest walking permeate the air. We were about an hour from the road now. Save for the initial back and forth when we met, both Handmaid and baby are silent. I was trying to make the walk easy as possible for them two, avoiding the deep grottoes or ditches which I didn't really care about because I was used to it.

Although, admittedly, I hadn't always been used to it. I was a city boy, born and raised. And the easier the walk got, the more bored I got. And bored wasn't good. When you were bored, you let your guard down. As one of my sergeants had told me a long time ago...

_"Believe or not soldiers, when you're out there, beyond the wire. Bored can get you fucking killed."_

And I was about a hundred miles or so beyond the wire. Deep within enemy territory.

Neck deep.

My only option to cure the boredom seemed to be to talk. Get to know the Handmaid a little. After all, we would be staying in a safe house, with a pro-resistance family. Maybe it would be awkward if we got there and didn't know each other. I don't fucking know. But again, I hesitate. Not many Handmaids were talkative. They were scared, off balance.

But she seemed a little different.

Despite holding the baby, she walked with a notable confidence. Despite all the horror she had probably been through, she maintained a certain dignity. It honestly seemed like she had held children before. Maybe before Gilead she had been a hospital nurse, or some kind of child caregiver. I recall her resilience and toughness on the road. She did have a moment of fear the second she had opened the van door, but she had overcome it.

It's enough for me to attempt to break the ice, which I had never done before with other Handmaids.

The opportunity presents itself in a sudden change in terrain. There's a sudden slope in the approaching path, which I direct her and the baby around. It didn't look like much, but it was too easy to fall. I knew that from bitter experience. "Watch your step. Slope over here."

She does as told, zig-zagging back and forth down the small hill with little effort.

"Made that look easy," I comment. I see if she responds.

"My parents were big nature people, we used to..." Her voice falters, and she trails off.

It probably hurt her to remember, the world before. Hell, I knew it hurt me. She sighs, but she continues.

"We used to go up to the White Mountains in New Hampshire on the long weekends. My dad's parents lived there. My dad would hike and fish and… I'd just stare at the lake...or play with the rocks. I didn't always like it...but...it was beautiful. These forests are undeniably beautiful."

"You from around here?" I ask.

"Vermont. Burlington."

She turns to me. "What about you?"

"San Diego."

Her face falls. Why does her face fall?

Because San Diego was one of the cities that got nuked. Yep. My home city, bathed in nuclear fire. Those pieces of shit. Pretty much my whole family, many of my friends. Dead. Fuck.

It hurt.

It had been three years, and it still hurt.

"I'm sorry,” She says quietly, and sighs. "Again...I'm sorry. But can we take a little rest? Just...need a break."

"It's fine." We still had a couple hours and had been going at a good pace. Physical-wise, and mission wise, we seemed alright.

Mentally, well...some days were better than others. How do you deal with your entire family and many of your friends either dead or long unaccounted for? It still didn't sit well with me. I mean, it didn't sit well with anyone. Literally millions of communities had been shattered into pieces by the Republic of Gilead. One day, I knew those motherfuckers would have to answer for their crimes against humanity. But until then, the war raged on. As we sit on the side of a trail, her sitting on wooden log and me on a rock, I find myself remembering again, my family and friends...

The good old days.

The world before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter with another flashback. Yeah, they might seem annoying but, all the characters in them may just appear in the present day. Even if they don't, I feel like flashbacks are important window into a character's personality. While Emily just might have a family to live, fight for, and return to, Aden is doubtful...

Five

 _“When a prisoner of style escapes, it's called an evasion.”_    
― Mark Twain,  _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_

 

"Here, catch!"

The ball sails into my glove, and I catch it firmly. The sun shone bright into a cloudless blue sky, not too warm but...not too cold either. I could feel a distant ocean breeze on my face, and hear the distant calling of seagulls. The grass is a deep green, and the fence...a bright clear blue. The summer courses through my veins. Where was I?

Back home.

My dad is there, standing with a catcher's mitt.

My dad. He was alive.

He looks like he always has. Decent build, about six feet tall, with solid arms and slightly greying hair. He's looking at me with confidence and anticipation.

I reel my hand back, and then move forward with a pitching motion. My throw is...off to the left...late. My dad says as much. "You're late again kid. Try to release the ball earlier. But don't overthink it. Come on Aden, I know you can do this."

I sigh in frustration. I hadn't been the most patient child. I was still at that age where I thought everything would come easy to me. I wasn't in second grade anymore, no...how old was I?

The ball is in the air, and I catch it, ready to try again. I breathe. I find myself imagining I was an actual major league baseball pitcher, with an announcer narrating my every move. "Bottom of the ninth, two outs, two strikes. One more strike, and McCreary will have the save..."

One more strike...

He's set...I go to the set position.

And he delivers. I start the windup...and throw.

It's a flawless throw, straight into the mitt. My dad doesn't even have to move. "Nice! Knew you could do it! Now...do that again. Exact same pitch."

I knew you could do it. That had been a feeling. The first time my dad ever gave me praise. The man I looked up to the most, giving me praise. My heart fills with pride.

Wow.

_Hey...are you ready to go?_

I knew you could do it.

_Um...hello?_

And I'm back in the present. The Handmaid is looking at me with her big blue eyes. "I'm ready to go," she says with slight impatience.

"Sorry, sorry..." I say, shaking my head. I stand up, and continue our walk. Initially, there is silence as she trails behind me. Feeling awkward, I keep talking. "I...get lost in thought easily."

I feel like I owe her an explanation. Ugh, she couldn't have her rescuer daydreaming. You fucking idiot, I chastise myself. What the hell are you daydreaming about, soldier? I feel tears sting my eyes.

I miss my dad.

I wonder where he is, if he was alive. If he had made it out of San Diego before the nukes. I don't know. I honestly wondered if I ever would fucking know. Her response is silence. But she speaks, after a long pause.

"I do it too," she says.

There is another pause as we stroll through the forest, no sound except for the crunching leaves, the intermittent wind, and a distant flowing river. She speaks again. "As a Handmaid, all I could do was think. I mean, we're not supposed to, but what else can I fucking do while locked in a room with nothing except for a bed and a desk, except fucking think?" Her voice is low, angry, and resentful.

I'm suddenly curious about a handmaid's life, even if I already kind of knew the answer. "Do they really keep you locked up in a bedroom all day?"

She stops walking, causing me to turn around and face her. "Yes. We're prisoners."

She then starts walking again, and continues. "The only time we're allowed outside our rooms is to eat, walk to and from the store, and...the ceremony." She practically spits out ceremony, putting emphasis on it.

Damn. The ceremony. That's when the Commanders had sex with the Handmaids. Well, the much more accurate term was rape. It was highly ritualized, I heard. They said Bible verses beforehand and did some other weird shit I think. But the crux of it was laying the Handmaid down and raping her. Terrible. Fucked up. Gilead was trying to deny it, I mean, the evidence of it was still a little sketchy, but I didn't doubt it. The elite held women prisoners and used them to carry babies.

"That's why I need to get out. If I get caught, I'm finished. They'll take the baby, and more than likely kill me." There is clear desperation in her voice.

Paranoia about getting caught. That was often a big problem among escapees. It made them paranoid to the point where it interfered with their ability to make logical decisions. Sometimes that could be the biggest killer, over bullets or helicopters. The best response to paranoia was confidence.

"We're not going to get caught," I replied.

"How sure are you of that?" Her voice is tense.

"Because every Handmaid I've rescued has successfully escaped. I either got them to the border, or to a resource which would get them there. I'm undefeated so far."

Admittedly, that was an exaggeration. I had only helped two Handmaids to the border, and one to a Quaker family. This time felt...different. Some of it was in a good way. Although we had only been walking for a few hours, I sensed a strong spirit within this woman. She seemed to have a steadier head on her shoulders than other Handmaids. But also...the baby. A baby stolen from Gileadean elite was no small fish. They would likely be looking. As much as I wanted to deny the possibility of having to dodge passing helicopters and squads of Guardians or Angels, I just couldn't. That baby could get us killed. It's all I can do to control this newfound anxiety. Be stable. You are a rock, I tell myself. Huh, hopefully she doesn't ask exactly how many Handmaid's I've helped. I wasn't a good liar. The woman sighs behind me. "If anything, if I somehow don't make it, make sure the baby does. Holly can't grow up here. She just...can't."

"I take it she's your daughter?"

"No. She's my friend's."

_Whoa._

Now that was an answer I hadn't expected. This woman was getting her _friend's_ daughter out of Gilead. I couldn't help but wonder how the hell that had happened. Maybe the original mother was dead, maybe executed. Damned if I knew. But if she was alive, I wondered how the mother felt about this woman getting her daughter out. I wondered. Yet, I didn't want to pry. I already felt like she had revealed a lot.

Silence felt more comfortable now.

The silence is promptly broken by the baby, Holly. She starts to whine and cry a little. We were almost two hours from the road, but that was a problem. If anything, I was paranoid. I turn back to the Handmaid. "Try to keep her quiet," I say as nicely as possible.

"She's a baby, she can't help it," she retorts, somewhat defensively.

"Silence might mean the difference between life and death, ma'am."

It was a hard truth, but it was a truth. One unguarded scream or wail could get all three of us killed if we had any close calls with patrolling Guardians or Angels. I mean, we were good. We were a good distance from the road and there hadn't been any passing planes or helicopters. "Shhhh," the woman says to Holly. "I'll try my best," she remarks.

The trail then turns up a hill. "This is probably the toughest part of the walk, right here. Get ready."

I look up. Damn, this would be a bitch. The walk as a whole hadn't been that bad, it was relatively smooth, not many rocks or any obstacles, but this was the one doozy. They said rucking would get easier.  Yeah, bullshit. I feel the gear in my pack not even halfway up. By the time we are halfway, I'm huffing and puffing. So is she, carrying a baby in hand was probably difficult in its own right. Also, the rifle on my back knocks annoyingly on the back of my leg. Despite the difficult trudge up the hill, everything else is alright. The air is clear, and the sky is partly cloudy, which now carries a solid afternoon look. We were making good time, and the Handmaid seemed more stable than the others. That's what I had been told, often. Try to look at all the positives. The wind blew, as some autumn leaves fall in front of our path. For a second, I'm on the beaches of San Diego again. Hearing the crashing of the waves and distant whining of the seagulls.

The baby again makes a bit of noise, knocking me out of more momentary daydreaming. This time however, it sounds more pleasant than angry or tired. I turn behind me to see the little child smiling and laughing softly, trying to reach out and touch the leaves. The Handmaid looks and smiles ever so slightly. For once, the world was alright. Without thinking, I speak. "Makes me want to be a little kid again. No fear, no bullshit, just a kid, with a clean slate. Ready for the world."

"I've...long forgotten how that feels," she says distantly. "You lose pretty much all of your innocence after getting raped once a month."

I honestly don't know how to respond.

Damn.

There is a long silence. How could I relate? I couldn't. Well, maybe. I had killed. I had taken human life from the face of this Earth a few times now. I find myself recalling the first time I killed someone. Crack. The way a firing rifle pierced its way through the air. How it had reverbed and echoed through city buildings. The way the Angel's body had just...dropped. It didn't fly or punch back like in the movies. It just went plop. Boom.

The way that civilian, a middle-aged woman who had been hiding in a store nearby, had frozen in fear.

"To me, it's having to kill. That shit will stay with me until I die," I say.

"Yeah, it's not a good feeling."

I'm not sure what she means, as I look back at her. I feel myself instinctively raise an eyebrow. She looks at me with sharp blue eyes. There is sadness and a tinge of…regret? I don't know. She looks down, and doesn't speak further. I keep my eyes back on the ground as well, to keep myself from tripping. Had she killed someone while escaping? It was possible, yet I refrain from inquiring further.

We've reached the top of the hill.

There's still lots of trees so the view isn't great, but I can see a small pond in the distance. "That pond...I think we're getting close," I say.

She turns to me, and nods faintly. She then looks up into the trees. A cool gust of wind blows through the forest, hitting us as well. The baby wraps itself in its arms, clearly cold. "We're almost there," she coos.

"Such a nice day," She remarks quietly, talking more to herself then to me. "A nice fall day. Yet...if only your godmother knew what month it was, exactly."

"November." It was November.

"Mmm...November. Thanksgiving is in November, Holly. Maybe when we get to the house they'll cook us a nice Thanksgiving dinner. Mmm...I remember Thanksgiving. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie..."

I felt my mouth start to water. Oof. I begin to think how fucking awesome that would be. They really could cook us Thanksgiving dinner.

She keeps talking. "An old friend of mine, she was the best cook. I wonder what she's cooking, right now, up in Canada. I wonder if...she's thinking of me. I wonder if...she still loves me, the way I loved her."

She.

Love.

All I can do is sigh sadly.

Yet, interestingly enough, she was here, and alive. Was she a lesbian? Bisexual? I wondered, but it was pretty out of line to ask. I mean, I didn't even know her name. However, despite that, she had survived the countless mass executions. She was still here. That had to count for something. The melancholy in her voice clearly showed her words weren't for me to hear. She was daydreaming, like I had been earlier. Everyone did it, dreamed of better times, better places...

No one really wanted to be a part of this new reality.

As I begin to get lost in thought, I realize she's looking at me again. Her face says ready to go. So, I get back to walking, me leading the way, and her carrying the baby, in tow. The way down the hill is notably gentle and less steep. We begin to approach the pond.

As per the mission objectives, the pond was a landmark. It marked the edge of the property owned by our (possible) host family. I recall my instructions, "not far from the top of the final hill, there will be a pond. This indicates you are entering resistance-held territory. About 300 meters, 45 degrees northeast from the pond, there is a faded blue bird feeder." Yes, the birdfeeder, we're looking for a bird feeder. "If the bird feeder is full, which it mostly likely will be, you are shown the house is open to runaways. You must confirm your existence and request an invitation by emptying the bird feeder of all its contents and putting it back where you found it. You then should return to a temporary waiting spot (preferably on the far side of the pond). At the top of the hour, the host family will place a rock inside the feeder, which indicates your invitation is accepted. There will also be a short note indicating the location of the host house. Please wait 10 to 15 minutes after the top of the hour to check the feeder, and please take both rock and note from the feeder when the check is done."

Except first, we had to find that bird feeder. And I would probably need the Handmaid's help. My watch read 1538, or 3:38 pm. I hoped to find the feeder before 4, or we'd be sitting out here in the dark and advancing cold. As the calender dipped closer to December, so did the temperature. It would be too easy to die of exposure. The sky had also darkened considerably, from a friendly afternoon sunshine to mostly grey clouds, with only small spots of sky showing through. Although it didn't necessarily look like it was going to rain or snow, that was a definite danger. "Alright," I put my voice down to a whisper. "Nothing more than whispering from here on out, we're close to the house but, there's a signal process we have to go through, and it's going to take a while."

She nods in understanding. "Are we looking for something?" 

"A bird feeder, it's blue."

We're now approaching the pond from the west. The water is wave-less, dead and stagnant. Other than the faint croaking of a frog and a sprinkling of crickets, the world is dead silent. It makes me uneasy. The feeder was 45 degrees northeast, so I pivot 90 degrees, and take out my compass for reference.

My path is not a friendly one. It takes me straight through a couple of big ass fallen trees and a mess of dead branches, sticks, and small boulders. Looked like a straight shot to Splinter Station and Cut City, but whatever. Land nav always became more difficult went you went off course due to an obstacle. As I look forward, I can feel the Handmaid looking at me, as she is quick to see my problem. She glances at me quizzically. I speak. "I'll be able to make it through, but you and the baby will have to stay here. I'll be quick."

The Handmaid nods faintly and moves to sit down on a log. I then turn to the trees. Time to climb. I leave my assault pack and rifle with the Handmaid, as I begin my daunting task. And...good news, althrough I had a difficult vault over the two trees, there isn't as many branches and sticks to dodge as I thought. Before long, I am over the trees and into a small clearing. I continue 45 degrees. Blue bird feeder, blue bird feeder...Rustling.

What looks like a rabbit darts to my side, making me jump in fear.

_Fuck._

_45 degrees..._

And in the distance, something blue. I slowly approach. And...bingo. It's shaped like a cube with a single window in front. As I approach, I see it is filled with not bird feed, but dirt. Quickly, I remove the bird feeder and the dirt. Before the hour, before the hour, meet the time hack. It's clean. I place the bird feeder back where I found it and switfly move away, like the rabbit. This had to work. Come on. I had met the first two mission objectives. Killed the Guardians, rescued the Handmaid. Now I had to get us a damn safe house.

I did not want to get stuck out here.

I return to the pond, where our Wait begins.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nobody was a stranger during the war — and amid the helplessness there was always hope…" - Les Cadle, Life In North West London During The Blitz by Alexis Brown, August 2005

Crickets.

 

Crickets, crickets, and more crickets. That is the sound that invades our ears as night falls upon the world. Save for the sporadic whines from the baby, that is all the Handmaid and I hear. As for our surroundings, it's almost dead black. It had been well over an hour since I'd emptied the bird feeder.

 

And good news. We were in.

 

We had returned to the feeder to see both the rock and the note. The note said, in scrawled handwriting. Continue forward 12 o'clock, there will be a trail. Turn right, and follow the trail, you will see our home before long.

 

Hell yeah.

 

But before the trek to our final destination, we rest. The journey back across the pond and through the woods hadn't been an easy one. I had to get the Handmaid through that cluster of branches, rocks, and other bullshit. On two occasions, there was a point where I had to hold the baby. And the baby, obviously not thrilled about being separated from its caretaker, cried. Loud. Now that, had been fucking terrifying. Yet, despite our fear, nothing happened. No Angels sprung from the Earth sending hell our way. We were lucky.

 

As we sit, the sky transitions from dull and grey, to its final stage of black. Long gone are thin streaks of red and orange and the final hints of what was the day. Now, it was night. And in the night, we sit in silence. We both sit alone, in our thoughts, in our feelings, in ourselves. Maybe she forgot I was there, I had forgotten she was there once or twice. Maybe she was relishing in this newfound shelter. I knew for sure I was. We had shelter, now we just had to find it. But, that was the future. In this moment, we are in the present. In silence, we sit.

 

In the world before, this had been Happy hour.

 

Happy hour. I'd heard that term before. I wasn't 100% sure what it meant, but it was something like the hours between 5 and 7 or 8, the hours after most workforces let out their workers for the day. It was the hour where people went to the bars and got drunk to destress from the day. And with the coming night, the city truly came to life. Streetlights and buildings lit up with their myriad of colors. It was a manmade universe, with the endless lights each a burning star. I remember being a little kid, my dad's friend driving my him and I to one of San Diego's beaches on a Friday night with the car top down. The way the wind hit me, it was like we were already in the water, yet we were still a half a mile away.

 

She's staring at me again. Those big blue eyes, covered mostly with largening pupils. Damn, that looked spooky. I stare back at her, to see what she wants. She taps her right wrist, where my watch is on my hand.

 

Time to go.

 

I stand up, as does she. I sling my rifle and assault pack. The final journey begun.

 

It's a sticky walk but, the trail appears as old fallen tree logs and small rocks, along with plain dirt mark a clear path. Right, turn right. Shit, it was really dark now.

 

"Can't see," she whispers, sounding a little frustrated.

 

"Yep." Is all I can say. As tempted as I was to use the old flashlight I have, I relent. Noise discipline, light discipline. But I know I have to help her. She had a baby crooked in one arm, and that definitely didn't make walking at night any easier. "Here," I say quietly. "Stay right behind me, I'll make the path."

 

"Okay."

 

I do as such, kicking my way silently through the dirt. Since it was trail, I didn't have to worry that much about tripping. But there was still always some fucking rock, stick, or ditch that was there to be like fuck you I want to break your ankle.

 

A gust of wind. Shit, it was cold. Had to be about freezing, if not a little warmer. I wondered if it would snow tonight. Definitely possible, as we strolled through the New England forest. This part of the country had always been known for its winter weather, while I had spent most of my life laying under the California sun. Regardless, there is a beauty in the darkness. The way the millions of stars shone overhead. Mother Nature seemed to have a way of resisting humanity’s bullshit.

 

Well, except for the Colonies I guess. Humanity's fuckup there would definitely take time to fix.

 

And then, light in the distance.

 

Ohhh shit.

 

"You see that?" I say, turning back to her.

 

I can barely see her face, but she nods. And for a second, I think I see her smile ever so slightly.

 

The light was dim, but as we approached, it grew.

 

And grew...

 

Yet it was faint.

 

It was a definite stretch to think they actually had electricity out here.

 

Yet the trail turns to...what is a front porch. And a lantern.

 

And a...person, a man, with...what looked like a rifle sitting on his lap.

 

I feel my breath catch in my throat.

 

I stop. And so does she. A friend, it was probably a friend. But I didn't know. I'd followed the directions but...what if this was the wrong house. What if this was a trap? Both of us stand still, as the trail approached from about a 60 degree angle, rather than straight into the front steps. As we stand, I see the man sitting, casually surveying the wilderness. Looking, probably for us.

 

I cautiously approach.

 

I take about five steps before the Handmaid makes some type of sudden motion. I can’t see in the dark ness, but it sounded like she had tripped. The sudden movement causes the baby to whine in disapproval. And then, of course, to cry.

 

_Wahhhhh..._

 

Damnit.

 

I stop walking, dead in my tracks.

 

I see the man stand on the porch, a big hunting rifle in his hands. It's scoped. He looks around, seemingly in suspicion. And I instantly realize, we just might be fucked.

 

_Shit, shit._

 

And my hand moves to my pistol.

 

I feel my heartbeat soar; it rockets into my throat.

 

Again, I prepare myself to kill.  

 

The man looks around, and to my surprise and bewilderment, he sets it down, leaning on the wall of the house. He brings his hands to his mouth and whistles. "Hey!! Over here!"

 

He has a big deep voice, and although he doesn't see us yet, but he can obviously hear the crying baby. He beckons us forward with his hand. Might as well reveal ourselves. Slowly but steadily, I walk forward into the faint lantern light as the Handmaid follows hesitantly. The baby continues to wail.

 

He sees me, and I see him. He approaches fast, but friendly.

 

"Hello!" he juts out a big, hairy, and muscular arm. "Name's Robert. Guess I'll be your host for the night, huh?"

 

I size him up. His voice carries a faint but noticeable Southern accent. He was an older man, about retirement age or a little past it. Yet he walked freely and confidently, showing the frailness and delicacy of old age hadn't quite overtaken him yet. He wore a large hunting hat, which was canted back slightly. I get a small view of his scalp, in which the hat was trying to hide a balding white head of hair. He has blue eyes, thick glasses, and a bushy white beard. All he needed was a big red coat, black belt, boots, and he would have been Santa Claus.

 

"Yeah," I say, shaking his hand. Iron grip, ouch.

 

I'm still reeling from the momentary mass spike in adrenaline. We're safe, we're safe, we're safe, I say to myself. It's okay. The Handmaid, however, had stopped a short distance away by what looked like an old dog house. She was trying in vain to quiet the baby.

 

"And what do we have over here? A woman and...a baby?"

 

The Handmaid nods faintly.

 

"A baby...wasn't in the request," he says, sounding puzzled. However, like on the road, the Handmaid takes Robert’s hesitancy as a threat.

 

"She is now." She says coldly and firmly, shying away from him slightly.

 

Robert immediately notices her fear, and stops himself. He nods respectfully. "My apologies, ma'am. I forget myself sometimes." He turns to me.  "Y'all are free to come on in when you’d like. Sooner than later though, it might snow tonight!"

 

Although the baby still whimpered, I give the Handmaid a look. I want to get all three of us inside quickly as possible. Damn, it was like flipping Antarctica out here, as more ice-cold gusts of wind bite the air. She nods and follows me up the steps.

 

We walk into what is clearly a very nice home. It was almost like the war had never happened here. There is first a large and spacious living room, with two nice furnished couches, an extravagant Persian rug, burning fireplace, coffee table, and a book shelf filled to the brim. On the other side is another smaller couch, loveseat, table with a board game, a mess of sleeping bags over an air mattress, and holy crap, a TV. Although the room should have been dark, it is lit by an extensive collection of lanterns and candles. On the far side of the room is a small but modest kitchen. I quickly notice two people, man and woman, sitting side by side on stools at a buffet, with large bowls of...what was I immediately smell, food.

 

Food.

 

Meat.

 

Holy fuck, that smelled good.

 

I stare like an idiot at the bowls, and I barely see the man leave the stool and approach me. "Hi," he says, extending his hand. He is friendly, but is not quite as overbearing as Robert. "I'm Michael."

 

Michael is much younger than Robert but older than me, probably in his 30s, about the Handmaid's age. He has dark brown hair combed and slicked back, and wears a slightly torn old button-down shirt and Levis. "Candace," the woman in the kitchen, holding a bowl says. She sets it down and waves. I don't get a super good look at her in the somewhat dim light. She is thin, with long chestnut hair and dark brown eyes. Pretty, but I notice the ring on her left hand, and on Michael's hand. Probably married.

 

"And you are?" Michael asks.

 

I hesitate. Among most resistance groups, it was considered highly unsafe to give someone your real name. It's why I hadn't given my name to the Handmaid and she hadn't said hers. If you were ever captured, having an actual name in your head made it much easier for Gilead to track others down if they managed to beat it out of you. And with their lack of rules regarding torture, that name usually got to them one way or another. However, one of the first things I had noticed was how agreeable, approachable, and most of all, unafraid these people were. The only indication that these people were fighters was Robert's rifle, which it never really seemed he had particular intention of using it anyways.

 

However, of course, my mind locks up when trying to think of some fake name. Might as well be honest. "Aden," it finally leaves my mouth. "I'm Aden."

 

Michael turns to the Handmaid. "You?"

 

"Emily." She utters quietly. And she thrusts the baby forward slightly. "And Holly."

 

Emily, her name was Emily. At least...that was the name she gave.

 

At the kitchen, I see the woman, Candace, staring almost dumbly at the baby. So does Robert, his face a mixture of surprise and awe. In this day and age, a healthy baby was a true rarity. A priceless thing. She speaks.

 

"Ohhh, look at you!" She exclaims in a motherly, cutesy voice. "Is she healthy?" The woman inquires.

 

Emily nods. "As far as I know, yes. But... we had a long walk, where we had no food, or water. That can't be good."

 

"Well, I have good news, we have a ton of water, and a whole dinner prepared. No power, but...we're used to that." Robert remarks. "Hey honey, get these people somethin’ to drink!" He adds

 

"Of course!" Candace responds. She reaches into a cupboard filled with bottles of water.

 

"Thanks." I say. I was indeed exhausted, and thirsty. And hungry. Damn. Again, I cannot tell you how good the food smelled. I was very tempted to look, but I guessed it would probably be rude to intrude behind the kitchen counter. I also wanted to sit down. Bad, so bad. I was tired and sore as all hell. But...I was also fucking filthy. I'd been out in the wilderness for over a week, and I didn't want to get anything dirty. I'd already tracked some god-knows-what shit into the house. My assault pack and rifle had made dirt imprints by the door. I observe the path of dirt behind me leading to where I stand.

 

"Oh, don't feel bad about it son," says Robert, also seeing the mess I’ve made. "We can get you two cleaned up after dinner. We got bottled water but no heat.”

 

"Thank you," I say. "It's..." I turn to Emily, and back to her. "Been a long day."

 

Yeah, I killed two people. It's all I can think.

 

_Crack._

 

Suddenly, a voice from down the hall. A child. A little kid, those still exist? "Uncle Mikey! Can we have dinner now? I'm hungry!"

 

Hell yeah, can we?


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the family, the wounds left by Gilead are still fresh.

The food is ready. 

After the candles and lanterns are moved and the table is set, we file into an ornate dining room. The room is decorated with old paintings, family pictures, and a black and white photo of the Beatles spotted with a couple signatures. However, the thing that instantly jumps at me out is the kids. There's five of them at the dining table. Two little girls bounce in their chairs, seemingly eager to eat, and two boys sit quietly, gaping at Emily and I with big eyes. Another, slightly older girl, also stares at us with curiosity. She seems to take a breath and says, "Hello." 

All were young, oldest looked to be barely a teenager. 

Next, of course, is the food, all set in plates and bowls. Robert declares it out.

"Deer, potatoes, canned soup from up north, tomatoes, and avocado. But try to go light on the avocado, we're trying to ration the veggies." He says. "And the potatoes, they're a little soft and old but...not spoiled yet. If they get you sick I'll eat one myself."

We pass the food around and fill our plates, but Michael forbids the children from eating. Probably a direction to us too. Emily sets the baby in a high chair, frequently stroking her to keep her from crying further. As we finish, I notice all the kids have their eyes on Robert, seemingly waiting for him. There is brief silence.

He speaks.

"Miss Emily, do you mind if I say grace?"

Silence.

And instantly, I knew, he knew what she had been. He knew she was a Handmaid, and was probably asking out of respect not to trigger her. He was a Christian, but...not a bad one. The fucked up people who had imprisoned her out of religion had probably turned her off to it forever. I wondered if she had ever been religious. I don't know. There is nothing but tense silence, except for the distant crackling of the fire in the fireplace, over in the other room. 

Emily looks at him briefly, and down. The silence continues.

Like the world right after I'd fired the shot.

She turns to him, and sighs deeply. "I...hate to be rude, but I'd rather, you not." 

He nods. "I understand," he says.

"Well then, let's eat!" He says heartily. "Wait!" He suddenly interjects. "Actually...kids. Why don't you introduce yourselves?"

The older boy and girl simultaneously lean forward to speak. However, the boy bows his head, submissively. He gestures to her. "I'm Shelly." she says. She seemed to be the eldest. She had long, straight dark blonde hair.

"And I'm Brandon," said the boy, who seemed to be a little younger than Shelly. Brandon turns to  
the younger boy sitting next to him.

"My name is Jacques." He says. 

"Jacques." I echo, noticing the S on the end. "Is that French?"

"Yep!" He smiles with a big mouth, two front teeth missing.

"Jacques was named after his great grandfather. Fought in World War II as a French partisan," says Michael, a little proudly.

"Cool." I remark. "And what about you?" I glance at the little girl.

"I'm Emma!" She smiles and points at herself. "What's your name?"

"My name's Aden."

"Aden?" 

"Yeah. A D E N." I spell it out for her. The girl then turns to the even smaller girl next to her. She didn't look much older than a toddler. "Your turn!"

The girl stares blankly, with big, green eyes. But she doesn't talk. "Come on honey. Say your name," says Candace gently. She speaks quietly, but I can hear her. "Kayla," she says quietly and shyly. She puts her hand over her mouth. "You can talk louder than that!" Robert says. "Big girl voice!"

However, Kayla doesn't speak again, though Candace presses her a bit. "Kayla. Do you know how old you are?"

Kayla smiles a little but doesn't show teeth, and holds up her hand, all fingers extended. "Five." She says eventually.

"Yes! Five years old. And how about you, Emma and Brandon?"

"Eight!" "Ten." The boy and girl speak simultaneously, Emma eight and Brandon ten.

The oldest girl, Shelly, speaks. "I'm twelve. And Jacques is also seven, but...do you know what's in two weeks, Jacques?"

"My birthday!" Jacques says excitedly. "And...do you have a name?" He looks at Emily, who is sitting right across from him.

"Emily." She says.

"Emily! That's like my name, except with a Y and not an A," Says Emma suddenly. 

Then, Brandon talks. "Ugh, can we eat now?" He asks impatiently. "Yeah, what are we waiting for?" Robert says. "Dig in!"

For several minutes, we munch on our food without conversation. The only noise is the loud chewing from the kids. I notice Emily donating some of her plate to Holly, where she turns the food to pretty much mush with her silverware so the baby can eat it. Again, there is the just the distant crackling of the fireplace. The baby makes some noise, but doesn't quite whine. Holly seemed to be enjoying the food. Meanwhile, the middle girl, Emma, stared at Holly in interest and wonder.

"I like your baby," Emma says to Emily sweetly. She seemed more interested in the child than her plate. 

Emily smiles a little, flattered by her compliment. "Thank you, but...she isn't mine. I'm just taking care of her." 

Emma cocks her head in confusion. "What happened to her mommy and daddy? You didn't steal her did you?"

"Emma," Candace chastises coldly. "Don't say something like that!"

"Sorry, auntie," Emma responds, clearly hurt by Candace's angry voice. 

"Oh, it's fine," Emily responds. "I'm..." she trails off for a second, unsure of what to say. It wasn't always easy to explain the fucked up world we lived in to an eight year old. I also note the usage of auntie in the back of my mind. 

"I'm helping her mommy," she finishes, finally. "Her mommy wants her to grow up in a better place."

"Oh," Emma responds, clearly confused, unsure of what to say.

Brandon, the eldest boy, speaks up. He has a little more clarity. "You're trying to get away from the bad guys, huh? The Guardians?"

"We both are," she responds, speaking of herself and Holly. "Aden," she looks to me. "He rescued us from them today."

All of the kids look at me in surprise. It is Emma that speaks.

"Are you a superhero?" She asks, her eyes getting big.

I almost spit out my water in amusement, and also a little flattery. Her innocence was amusing and charming all the same. But also, very possibly, tragic. She had barely been in grade school when shit hit the fan. The DC massacre, the wars, and the violence that came with it. Chances are she had lost at least one person close to her. I guessed there was more than this family than what met the eye. There were five kids, but only three adults, one of which was an old man. I wondered who they had lost. There is silence around the table. Candace and Michael look at me, but Robert stares, deep into my eyes. He speaks.

"Not a superhero, but he's darn near it. That young man is a soldier."

Soldier. 

Yes, I was a soldier. An American Soldier. US Army.

I know, I know. I haven't said anything, until now. Because...I didn't like to think about it. I didn't like to remember. They had been my family, my second family.

And, just like my first family, I had lost them. 

I didn't like thinking about the Army because I didn't feel like a soldier anymore. There was no PT, no formations, no inventories, no battle drills, no sergeants giving me commands. I just crawled through the forest and killed people, and that was it. I didn't live the soldier life. It's just me, here, alone. And that was one of the first rules of combat. Never go out beyond the wire without a battle buddy. There had been days when I had friends. Brothers in arms. But they were gone, long gone, from my life. It was just me, now. Without that camaraderie, that friendship, I felt like nothing. And one might wonder, how did I get here? How the fuck was I alive? It was a long, sad story. Through my thought, I notice someone speaking. It's the woman, Candace. She stares at me with shock and awe. "Is that true?" She says, breathtaken.

"Yes." I say, quietly.

Robert gives me a small smile. "I was a soldier too once. There was me, 1969, just a few months after high school, I'm holdin' a rifle walkin' onto the first morning plane to Vietnam."

Damn. This guy was a Vietnam vet. Instantly, I feel small. 

"50 years ago that was, chasin' the Vietcong through the jungle." He sighed, deeply. He shakes his head.

"You think it's bad up here son? It's been pretty quiet here these past couple months. But go down south, to 'Bama or the Carolinas. It's like 'Nam all over again. Guardians and rebels shootin' at one another with no regard for decency." That's when he begins to get angry. "Do you know what they did to my friend's granddaughter?

"Oh Dad." Candace winces and buries her face in her hands.

"Teenage girl named Jill, hell, she used to babysit for us. Do you know what happened to her?" Robert asks, incredulous.

I just stare.

"She went out to walk her dog. And..." He groans with resentment. 

"She stepped on a landmine. Blew her to bits."

A landmine. 

A fucking landmine.

What country was this? Fucking Afghanistan? What had America come to?

Candace interjects. "Dad. Not while the kids are here."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry honey. It just makes me so, so upset..."

"It's okay Grandpa." Shelly says.

"Jill was nice," said Emma. "She gave me and Kayla her dollies after she got too old for them."

"They killed Jill," Brandon, the slightly older one, says, in a low voice. He casts his eyes downward. "And Dad. He was one of the good guys, until..."

Was.

Shit.

Although Brandon doesn't cry, the sadness and pain in his voice is unmistakable. This was pain that no child should, ever, ever feel. Yet these kids were. All these kids we're going through this. Then Shelly, the eldest, speaks, talking to Emily and I. "Our uncle, Cameron, was a policeman. One day, after the Guardians killed all of the government, more of them came to the elementary school and tried to take all the students away. The teachers tried to fight back, so they fired their guns at them. Then the police came, and there was a battle. Cameron...he got shot and...he died."

He died. That was it, huh? That had been it, for millions of people during the Takeover. There had been a war, and Gilead won. It hadn't been total victory, as daily guerilla warfare still was killing people off every day. However, it was decisive. It wasn't the fairy tale with a happy ending. Robert adds to Shelly's revelation. "The cops, they were outnumbered, outgunned. It was handguns against what used to be the SWAT team...M4s, MP5s, the like, so you can guess who won out in that. But...they managed to create enough of a diversion to where most of the kids escaped. After that, I gathered the family and..." He guffaws in a somber tone. "Somehow, we made it out of the city without getting nabbed at those damned checkpoints."

Emily sighs in, what sounded like frustration. She probably got grabbed at a checkpoint.

"Daddy is in Heaven now," Emma says softly. "I hope he's...happy."

That damn near broke me. But I don't. I hold fast. I don't start crying. Emily however, breaks. But not in the way I quite expected. With shocking quickness, she pulls up her chair with Holly and walks out the room. Kayla, the five-year old, absent-mindedly plays with her fork, knocking it gently against the table. For several seconds, that is the only sound. "I..." Emma trails off. 

She starts to cry.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The horrors of war keep our characters awake at night. Who can blame them?
> 
> Author's Note: Sorry for the late update. I wrote an absolute ton weeks ago but haven't had time to organize it into something postable. Should have at least three chapters worth of content, ready to post within the coming weeks...

Sleep on the couch had come surprisingly easy. At least it did for the first part of the night. But now, it was 2:37, and I had officially been lying awake for one hour. Damn. I try to relish it. The couch wasn't precisely the warm bed I had been longing for 24 hours earlier, but it did good enough. It was a couch. It was a hell of a lot better than the typical barracks mattress, and a priceless savior from the cold, hard ground. 

Regardless, I am surrounded by the night. The near pitch black that is the world. The clouds outside are thick, so there is no moon. It's fuzzy through the curtains, but I can see it snowing. Not hard, but slow and steady, small white freckles swirling gently through the air. I'd probably have to be the hand in shoveling it tomorrow morning. Fuck. I didn't feel like it. I wanted to be lazy and stay in bed until it was nine or ten in the morning, wake up, make myself some half-assed breakfast like cereal or a protein shake, then sleep for even longer. That had been damn near every Sunday in high school for me. Not doing anything except playing video games or moping around the house. I

That, in some ways, was the person I'd used to be. Not anymore. Then the Army happened. The Army, in a lot of ways, had propped me the fuck up. While I had been a good student-athlete, the military cranked that “get shit done” mentality up to a whole different level. It was crazy, really, what you could achieve given the alternative was endless exercise. 

Then Gilead. 

Gilead put it all in perspective. Gilead made it so life decisions were almost black and white. Life and death. If I did something, I survived, if I didn't, I died. Like water. Damn, I want water. I was thirsty. 

I stand up, still dragging the blanket because the fire is out. The air is cold, but not stinging. The house is fairly well insulated, so there is no stabbing breeze to give you an unfriendly reminder as to how much colder it is outside. While the cold wasn't paralyzing, the dark, was nearly so. Like I said, no moon. No lights. I can't see shit. 

But, around the corner of the living room, I see something.

Light.

Just a tiny sliver, but it was unmistakable in the darkness. Looked like one of the lanterns reflecting gently on the wood. I slowly, but surely move toward it, unsure of what I'd find. Although the water was in the kitchen, I find myself gravitating toward the dining room anyways, curiosity getting the best of me. My footsteps creak on the hard wood floor. By no means was it a stealthy approach. Something tells me I'll find one of the kids. I open the door…

I'm wrong, but not entirely.

It's Emily, Robert, and Holly. Emily softly rocks the baby in silence at the dining room table. Robert has a tired, distant. look on his face. Both their eyes are big and dark in the twilight, and I see Robert put a finger to his lips. I nod in affirmation, and I sit at the other head of the table. We begin conversation, with our words as soft as feathers. We both show surprising efficiency with lip reading. 

"Can't sleep?"

Robert shrugs. "Insomnia. Sleep never comes easy, especially after I left ‘Nam…”

I remember again Robert was a Soldier too, except he had fought long, long before I had. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much of a living relic he was. Rumor was Gilead was trying to kill off all the elderly. Why? I don’t know, I didn’t want to know.

I turn to Emily. "What about you?"

"Had to feed the baby."

I nod. There is a soft gust of wind outside, and it makes a haunting Oooo as it slices its way around the house. Spooky. I recall the events of last night. The dinner gone bad. There is silence between us, but Emily holds my gaze. I had always hated it when people did that, just stared at you. It made me feel like I was expected to say something. And, if you said the wrong thing, you'd somehow piss them off or get in trouble. Words spill out my mouth.

"Are y'all okay?" I ask. Emily had gone straight to the guest room after leaving the table last night, and didn't come back out. Robert, meanwhile along with the other adults, had to deal with Emma's breakdown, which had gone on for nearly an hour. Emma's words were still fresh in my mind. 

"Daddy is in Heaven now. I hope he's happy." 

Since the Takeover, I'd spoken to many people about who, and what'd they lost. In my hour of trying and failing to sleep, I searched in vain to find words that matched those in purity and tragedy. There were none. There was an old saying, something like, "No words are more true than those that come from a child." I don't fucking know. But what I did know Emily had been, what was that term, triggered, by what she said. Very much so. Emily seemed tough, but even she had her limits. 

Emily looks back at me with those big eyes, looking into my soul. Eyes that had seen too much. She looks away, sighs, and smiles. ever so slightly. "Well, I'm alive. I'm healthy," she says, finally. 

"Not many can claim that these days." Robert responds, keeping his voice hushed. "Both of you, lucky, so lucky..."

We nod in agreement. Robert speaks again, turning to me. "What about you?" He gives me a bit of a cocky smile. "How's the Soldier holding up?" 

Soldier.

I am reminded. And thus...memories return. For a moment, I'm at the range, a furious, angry sun beating down on me. I'm filling my canteen. And then, I'm on the road again. 

I see the bodies of the dead Guardians in the van. 

Fuck. I bury my head in my hands. 

Back in the present, Robert's staring at me, now looking concered. "I said something, didn't I?"

"It's just..." I stop a moment, to think. It's hard for me to hear that word...'Soldier'...and not just get...sad." I respond.

Robert nods. "I do too, sometimes," He says, a little distantly. "Thinking about all my old buddies, where they are, if they're still alive. I can hope, yet...I doubt it..."

"Hope is what keeps us going." I say.

Emily guffaws quietly. "We’re only allowed to hope what they tell us to.”

She spits on the floor in disgust.

Robert and I are silent, as the only sound is the swirling of the wind. I can't help but wonder who had it the worst, of us three, since the Takeover and the war. Well, four, counting the sleeping Holly. Imagine having to grow up in a world like this. Emily turns to me, her eyes filled with hate.

"It's easy to hope when you're free."

Free.

"You...weren't free." Robert remarks. 

She nods.

"How'd they get you?"

"The airport."

I sigh. The airport. They'd got a lot of people at the airport. Travel visas, marriage certificates, anything that could have got you outside of the US had been illegitimized in literally a matter of hours a few months after DC. The lockdown, as I personally referred to it. When the conversion from free land to prison cell began. But that, had only been part one. Then, the protests, then, the open rebellion.  
"I tried to hide, but I was toast. They had me in a Red Center a week later.” She looks down. "I've said enough." Emily says, sternly.

Robert speaks. "What they did-“ 

Smack smack smack.

We freeze in place. Loud bangs on the window.

Smack smack smack.  
Smack smack smack.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aden goes to investigate.

Some people liked to call themselves adrenaline junkies. They liked the feeling of being in danger, of having fear slice and dice its way through their veins. The thrill of jumping off a cliff, or running from the police. I guess I understood, the thrill of getting away with something fucking crazy. For some it was just a side hobby, for other's it was a lifestyle.

Regardless, I am not one of those people.

So, when I hear smacking against the window by the front door, I almost pee myself in fear. Yes, I get that scared. I know, I know, I'm supposed to be a Soldier. We're supposed to be all honorable, all courage, all tough, no fear.

Yeah, that was bullshit. You could jump over the barrier, charge the enemy, and it was all thrills and kills, until...

Until it, like for one, it literally exploded in their face.

\---

The grey. The concrete. Rubble. Buzzing.

The buzzing of bullets.

I'm behind one of those big concrete barriers reloading my weapon. The chaos of battle is all around me. Smoky air, burning building, some sergeant or officer yelling commands. However, the words are far away and fuzzy, drowned by the sounds of war. It's just a general mass of noise around me. I'm just trying to seat the damn magazine - there it goes. I am here, in a little square behind this barrier.

There's four in front of us, that being the best of our men. Then there's me, alone behind this barrier. And then on the other side of the street, there is another Soldier. His name is Perry. Remember him. More are behind us. We're fighting forward, to re-take control of a bridge. A bridge is not a good place to be in the middle of a battle. Bridges often hold considerable strategical value, as in ferrying things from one side to another, say across a river or canyon. However, bridges are often merciless, open areas for ground infantry. If there's no cover, you're a sitting duck for any dickhead who has elevation on you. And, being smack-dab in the middle of a major American city, it was open season for the Angels hiding out in the skyscrapers.

How we had made it this far without a single casualty was a miracle. And while, there is limited cover from the steel grates above us, it's not remotely enough.

One of my earplugs pops out.

Fuck!

 

Gunfire. And...my hearing goes bye-bye. Only temporary, it seeps back. But damn, that shit hurt. There is pain in the right side of my head.   _Fuck_...I mutter as I struggle to stuff the thing back in. Somewhere far away, I hear a shout. "Jesus fuckers in the tree grove!"

Jesus fuckers.

Hehe.

There is more shouting. "Who still has a frag?!"

"I got the last one sarn't!" Perry responds, over a brief lull in the gunfire.

"Think you can get em?"

"Hell yeah!"

I peek out the barrier to see Perry race forward to the front position. He's got at least eighty pounds on him, Kevlar was automatic 30, plus his ruck and all the other bullshit they made us carry. Regardless, his moves are as agile as a cat. It's almost like he's literally dodging bullets. How does he do it? Kid was superhuman. He gets to the barrier, which was practically a football field away, I can see. Not a scratch on him. Oh fuck, obvious muzzle flash from some skyscraper off to my right. I fire back in the distance. I can see them talking. Looked like they were arguing. I realize what they probably realize. The barriers weren't remotely close enough to the tree grove to where you could throw the grenade from there.

One of them would have to-

And then I see Perry run out from cover.

_Holy shit, he's actually doing it._

Brave son of a bitch.

I see him run.

Explosion.

He disappears in the fire and smoke.

\---

 

In the present, our current situation was...frozen. Robert, Emily, and I are still in the dining room, unsure what to do. Part of me wants to be courageous, but remembering Perry, I had second thoughts. Robert had made me lock up both my firearms in a chest so the kids couldn't get them. I felt naked as all hell without my guns. Now, that smacking was unmistakable. Three of threes. That was a resistance signal. Rough translation being, "help me". Yet, it was almost three in the morning. It could be anyone.

 

Anyone.

 

Another Handmaid, or a defecting Guardian, or what did they call the housekeepers...Marthas. And who else, the econowives, which, I never had been quite sure what they did. Gilead had a strict societal structure, and, three years since its creation, I still didn't quite understand it. If anything, I was thankful. Not even Emily had evaded capture. Yet I had.

 

Or, the smacking could have come from actual Guardians. Which, of course, would spell doom for everyone in this house. Paranoia begins to take me. I move in my chair. With cat-like quickness, Robert raises his hand, and my movement ceases. "Stay still," he mouths.

 

His hand returns to the table. My mind, races in circles, and my ears, are hypersonic microphones.

 

~~~

 

We've been sitting still as statures for almost an hour now. Since the smacks, absolutely nothing has happened. Save for the distant, intermittent wind, there is dead silence, and darkness. I'm glaring at Robert, because, while he might be in charge, this is getting a little ridiculous. Like, I understand, it could be Gilead, but this guy had survived out in this house for , what, 2-3 years now? Even if it was, I doubted anyone had the discipline to sit outside in the snow and cold for that long for a house on the off-chance this might be a resistance house. I want to tell Robert we aren't in Vietnam anymore. Soldiers fighting for Gilead weren't always trained professionals, but just some random motherfuckers who said some oath. With the oath, they give you the M4, and off you go.

 

Also, I need to fucking pee. The fact my bladder was going to explode was outweighing any fear or reservation I had of going outside. Remember, this isn't the America that had been. Many neutral/resistance areas we're third world, or worse, when it came to technology. Zero plumbing. Electricity sporadic. Pee by a tree and shit in a hole. I ready myself for the freezing suck.

 

Robert catches my glare.

 

"I gotta go," I say plainly.

 

"Where?" He asks.

 

"To pee."

 

I stand up, and begin my journey outside, without listening to his approval. "Hey," he says suddenly.

 

"What?" I'm not going to argue with you.

 

"Check to see if there's any sign of people out there. Footprints, or what not."

 

Ok. If those people don't kill me in the process.

 

I can't help but notice this guy was telling me what to do like he still was in the military. That was the life, especially as someone who was low ranking, like me. It was do what you're told. No less. And even if you did what you were told, you still got in trouble, sometimes. But this is easy. Pee and footprints, pee and footprints. I venture into a walk-in closet attached to the staircase, grab some old beat-up parka, as well as a flashlight, and head out. I open the door.

 

Whoosh. The wind hits hard.

 

It has stopped snowing, but it is still bitterly cold. I mess with the flashlight, turning it to it's lowest brightness. The fallen snow on the trees dashes and swirls it's way through the air. A winter wonderland. There are no crickets. Save for the wind, the world is eerily silent. No animals. I cautiously step my way to some tree, and do my business. I know what you're thinking. Yeah, it was tough to pee. The cold makes it burn pretty good down there. Ow. I zip up quickly.

 

I turn from the tree back to the house, except not to the door. This is where I begin my search for footprints. I can see my own, which paced their way through the snow, which is a few inches deep. I wonder where the smacks had come from exactly. The dining room was on the right side of the house. It had been pretty loud. I am slow, and steady. I also realize I don't have a gun. I almost laugh to myself. If I die out here, it's all on me. I carefully analyze the ground around me.

 

Bingo.

 

There's a steady set of prints leading to the side of the house, where they end. There were no stairs to the porch from there, so I guessed he or she had climbed up there. Now, the next step, was to see if this person was alone or accompanied. Accompanied could easily mean Guardians. Alone, somebody fleeing. They almost always travelled alone. I wondered why that was. I had helped three people get out, and they had all been solo. Emily was the first. But she didn't have a partner, she had a baby. That took fucking guts. Respect.

 

I trace the steps from the edge of the house back to where I'd first found the prints, careful not to spoil them with my own steps. I could see where they'd stepped over a gopher hole and between a couple of fallen tree branches. I traced and traced, and, as far as I could tell, this was an individual. There's also another bias. I was assuming this person was a woman. What if it was a man? Gilead was a prison for _everyone_ , not just women. Wrong sexual orientation, wrong religion, wrong ideas, if you were a guy, you were just as liable to get yourself killed. If I was ever captured, I knew I was toast. Not just people, but also the symbols and markings of America's past was under the microscope. Rumor was they had smashed the Lincoln Memorial, and sent a bunch of missiles into Mount Rushmore.

 

Regardless, Washington DC was still the capital.

 

Anyways, I've been walking for a good couple minutes. Robert's house is almost out of view, I should probably stop before I got my stupid ass lost in the woods. It'd be way too easy to die out here. I was eternally thankful I'd found this safe house before the storm hit. This shit, in a sleeping bag, was fucking deadly. I also wondered if Robert left food under the house, like others did. Heroes. You know how clean water tastes after chugging river water for weeks? I was surprised I hadn't been fucked up with dysentery. I was incredibly lucky to have a strong stomach.

 

For some reason, the parka has been tightening as I walk. I begin to feel like Kenny from South Park, as most of my face is covered by fur. HmpfhmpfHmpfhmpf. I manage to waddle back inside, to the dining room. I begin to speak when I see Robert is sleeping in his chair, snoring softly. Emily is still awake, staring blankly at the table, and then at me. I seem to snap her out of a memory.

 

"Footprints. One person."

 

She exhales in relief. She also understood that pair or group, probably meant Guardians. Anyways, I find my trip took a lot out of me. Again, I was tired.

I strip down and return to the couch, and fall into a dreamless sleep.

 

~~~


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument arises.

I awake.

 

The first thing I see is the large front window adjacent to the front door. Weak sunlight shines into the bushy and scrawny front yard. I can tell that, at one time, it must have been a grand entrance. There is a circular stone road, which goes directly around a tall gray fountain. However now, the road is now almost completely obscured by grass and weeds, and the fountain, also slowly being drowned by plants. Nature's takeover. Or, nature's camouflage. It was in the Huntington's best interest that no one except them and the people they helped lived here. However, all is obscured by a melting layer of snow, at least half an inch deep. Winter was here.

 

Like yesterday, I fall into a mood of ease. Usually I was at extensive unease, bordering on existential dread. It was a result of having to survive out in the wilderness for weeks. Life wasn't going to school or work, it was just as basic as finding the next meal, drink, or where to stay for the night. It took a lot out of me. And, over too long of a period, it could kill. You could be falling asleep by some tree, when a gang of hungry coyotes or the pissed off snake you accidentally stepped on a few steps behind you were like "end of the road, buddy."

 

However, inside, I am safe. I am protected.

 

I snuggle into my blanket, and imagine. I am not a Soldier on the run, but just a traveler. I'm staying in a mountain cabin, with my family, for summer break.

 

That is indeed what we used to do. A long time ago, in the world before, my mom and dad's family would get together and plan an epic trip, usually to the mountains. For many years we went to Lake Tahoe, up until my grandmother and grandfather got too old to climb stairs. Later it had been Mammoth. Somewhat more industrialized, but just as beautiful if you found the right places. I could still remember the mountain summers. The endless greenery of the trees, the rainbow set of flowers along the trails, and the distinct smell of pine. The sound of flowing rivers, and blue jays singing songs. Along with, of course, fishing; long hours sitting by the quiet lakes, waiting for a tug at the line. That had been true excitement and joy, when I caught my first fish. The way my little sister had looked at me, like I was the best thing in the world...

 

Heather. Her name was Heather.

 

Little has been said about my family. I tried not to think about them.

~~~

 

Lamp. A broken lamp, the bulb is smashed. But, somehow, someone stuck it back in its spot and it held without falling. Then, a desk, colored an old and dirty brown. Flourescant lights hum in the ceiling. Where am I? Fort Benning, Georgia, pulling guard. I remembered this night well, this had been the last few before we'd been sent beyond the wire.

 

And beyond the wire, I had remained.

 

It is me, and the one in charge, his name is Sergeant Carter. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him. He carries himself in an interesting way, a keen mix of casual and professional. He's leaned back in his chair, kicking up his boots on the desk, while he flips through a book on Army regulation. His hair is black and greased back, looking squared away. He sighs suddenly, and I can tell he's just as bored as I am. Then, he turns to me, sensing I'm looking at him even if I hadn't turned my head. He speaks. "Hey man, you good?"

 

Mostly, we lied when we answered this question. And the war, well, you know how that went. Were any of us really, good, after learning that over half our countrymen had betrayed us and were fighting against us in a civil war? I was lucky, now, to be far away from the front lines. At this point, shit was looking bad. Several cities had been hit by nukes, and it was high time to either surrender or go underground. Or both. Both was looking like the option. But I'm no general, just a lower enlisted. I didn't know shit except to shoot, and kill. And my family was dead, so, I didn't really give a shit. Part of me wanted to join them. This world sucked. My heart is too heavy to lie. For once, I answer honestly. At least I try.

 

"Well-"

 

The lobby door flies open, with some guy in uniform, carrying something...

 

~~~

 

"Canned beans, again?!"

 

Emma's voice of disapproval is quickly too much for her mother. "Last night was a special occasion, don't get used to it," Candace replies, cold and harsh.

 

All Emma can do is nod vaguely, as there is zero compromise in her aunt's voice. Aunt's. As for her mother, I still didn't know. Cameron, the father, had been killed. Mother, probably dead, I doubt they'd have much mercy for the spouse of a traitor.

 

Again, we are sitting at the table, each of us with an opened can of beans. Canned food in general was a commodity. High in protein and took a good while to spoil. Michael rubs his eyes, still clearly tired. "What I'd do for some coffee..."

 

"Run across the border?" Robert replies, sarcastically.

 

"One day," says Michael, distantly.

 

Silence. We begin to eat, and my first bite is...stale. Ew. The beans are stiff and... oddly crunchy. Yet it was food. Still good though, Robert had insisted.

 

"Why not now?" Emily asks, almost sounding angry.

 

Her eyes blaze blue, and they look to the children. Robert returns her angry stare, immediately understanding what she means. "It's not that simple," he says coolly.

 

It was at that moment I began to comprehend how difficult and complicated their situation was. There was eight of them in total, a full family. On the move, a group that large would leave a footprint and would quickly get picked out from any eye in the sky. However, they must be safer stationary. How long had they been out there, two, three years? And, they still acted like a family before. As strange as it sounds, it actually isn't.

 

Emily sighs with frustration. As does Robert, they obviously felt strongly about their respective sides. "Long story short, we're trapped."

 

"I can relate," says Emily dryly.

 

"Not like that," he responds. "I mean, we're, free, quote un-quote, here. We can't move far."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Up north, in Vermont, there's military bases. Forward Operating Bases, technically. They're crawling with the Gilead soldiers, or Angels as they like to call them."

 

There is a pause.

 

"That's probably where I got caught," Emily says, in a resigned tone. "I saw a Welcome to Vermont sign on the way north."

 

"Yeah. Chances are, you walked right into one."

 

The strategy they had used was...gradualism. The change... was not instant. There was the attack, originally. Congress, President, and Supreme Court all dead in practically one full sweep. It was only after months of the changes made to the American government that people began to get angry. I'll be perfectly honest and say I don't know exactly when the rebellion began. Or had it been a series of rebellions? I don't know for sure. I was curious to ask Emily, or Robert, or anyone, to see what they knew.

 

"How do you survive here?" Emily asks.

 

"Barely. Practically everyone we know, is gone." Candace speaks.

 

"It's...not easy" Michael echoes. "We're a family of eight, all of us need food, water, clean clothes, soap. We've lost almost everything… This house..." He shakes his head. "It may look nice."

 

"But you're not rich anymore." I say.

 

"Rich," Robert guffaws.

 

"I saw that fountain in the front yard. Poor people don't have fountains."

 

Candace laughs faintly. "This was...a summer home."

 

"Water situation is decent still, but it's a struggle to get enough food. We have twenty-five cans of beans left, twenty cans of peaches..."

 

There were the protests. And Gilead, well, machinegunned the protestors like they did Congress. What I remembered most in particular was the American Tank Man, in reference to the massacre in China a long time ago. During one of the protests, some dude guy plopped himself directly in front of Gilead tank. He lit a firework, and sent it. The gunner in the hatch was pretty much blown to bits.

 

The response? He too was obliterated, by bullets and tank rounds.

 

However, not before it was caught on cell phone video. And that's when shit really hit the fan. And, well, the rest was history. The East Coast rebellions failed miserably. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, D.C., were already crawling with those Guardian shitheads and were Gilead within weeks.

 

The initial victories opened the flood gates and the whole country kind of shit itself after that. The military kind of collapsed in on itself for a pretty good while. I don't know. Most of the civil war was the former American military vs. the new Gilead military. The split went from generals defecting and taking all the Soldiers under them, to privates getting into fist fights with each other because one sympathized with the new government and one didn't. It was interesting, being in the military and kind of cut off from the outside world, you'd think it didn't touch us at all. But it did, it really did. I think the breaking point was when they tried to remake the uniforms.

 

That, had more than likely been the no-go.

 

It was friend against friend. Brother against brother.

 

Three going on four years on, it still was.

 

"So," I break it. "What are you doing to do?"

 

Robert speaks. "Every family, our friends, got to its breaking point. And, from what we've seen, they either go north, or south. We're weighing our options."

 

"South," Emily says in disbelief.

 

"It's horrible, I know, to consider-"

 

"Consider," Emily hisses. Her stare is daggers. "South," she says through gritted teeth. "Is not an option. Not for you, not for me, not for your children."

 

"We've been in limbo for two years, they would kill us, take-" Michael begins.

 

"We could hide them!" Candace pleads. "This household could just be me, you, and-"

 

"You're going to get all of us killed!"

 

Emily suddenly interjects. "Do you even know what Gilead is like for women?" She snaps.

 

Not very good, I imagine.

 

Candace doesn't listen. Her face is fury, directed at Michael. "Do you know what thirst and starvation has done to the children?! Kayla almost-"

 

"Yes she almost died, I know." Michael responds, trying his best to keep his cool. "But we can't-

 

"We can't, what? We're out in the middle of nowhere and-"

 

"That's enough!" says Robert. His voice low but as hard as concrete. "Not around the kids."

 

I can see the dark circles under his eyes and a vague layer of dirt on his skin. Michael, too, looks beat up and haggard. We all did. How did people live here? You had eight people, all of which needed to eat, shower. By the looks of it all of them were healthy. That I understood, but what? What? People seriously sacrificed their freedom by surrendering to Gilead, for what? After holding out for three years, how was it worth it?

 

I try to see, and imagine, both sides.

 

The solitude and loneliness of being stuck here for years was clearly wearing her down to the seams. Tasked to take care of five children, keep them all healthy and happy despite dwindling the resources. Being trapped in a forest purgatory for two years was bound to drive almost anyone insane. Candace probably just wanted what she used to have, an upper middle-class life with everything guaranteed. Except, she would have to trade her freedom.

 

And the kids too, probably.

 

North was a death sentence, for obvious reasons. But south, while she may not have freedom, she may have security. Michael, and Robert, both seemed like decent people. They wouldn't mistreat her.

 

The oldest girl stands up from her chair. Her name is Shelly. She casts her stare at the other kids. "Let's go."

 

All of the kids shift in their seats, immediately. The older boy stands. Brandon, and he speaks. "May I be excused? I finished my food." He holds up the empty can of beans.

 

"Yes, you may."

 

Shelly walks out, and they all follow her in tow. Shelly locks eyes with me. And her eyes, they plead. She may be young, but she was old enough to understand this conversation needed to happen. And, in the however long they'd been here, it hadn't happened. At least not to the desired effect. And wasn't going to with her and the others there.

 

Smart cookie.

 

They shut the door behind them.

 

Emily smiles, slightly. "Wish I was like her at that age."

 

"Already a leader." Robert replies. "Our country needs that." He sighs.

 

"Sir," Emily breaths hard. She's doing everything in her power to not explode While all of us had lived rough lives since the Takeover, none had actually been inside except for her. She knew, from first-hand experience, what it was like. "If you reveal yourselves, they will more than likely kill you, and take your kids."

 

Robert sighs heavily. "What do they do with them?"

 

"Take them from their parents. And Commanders, they get them. To raise."

 

"See, not the ideal option, honey." Michael hisses.

 

Candace buries her head in her hands, but she recovers. "We could hide them."

 

"Son," says Robert. "In fact, both of you, need to cool off."

 

I find myself stifling back a laugh. He treats them like arguing siblings. "Hmm." Robert turns to us. "That deer was mighty good last night. And, it might be cold, but the weather's clear. Why don't we go on a hunt, get all this tension out?"

 

I was sick of arguing. Why not?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware this story is slow moving. 
> 
> It'll speed up, don't worry.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality bites.

Outside. Just beyond the front porch.

 

The world...is quiet, save for a gentle winter breeze. It sails seamlessly through the trees, _whooing_ its way to my exposed skin. The thermometer on the porch reads 37 degrees, not quite freezing. But still, the cold is reckless. The snow on the ground is beginning to melt, making things a little treacherous and slippery. However, I am well equipped with thick pants, winter boots, and several layers.

 

However, I'm nothing compared to the whale in front of me.

 

Robert, is all decked out, with two beanies, the massive orange parka I had worn last night, blue pants, and big black boots. He shivers from the cold, trembling in such a way that may have caused an earthquake in the atmosphere. An airquake. Hehe. He turns back and smiles, brandishing the old hunting rifle slung on his shoulder. "1940 Remington. Used to be my granddaddy's."

 

I give him a nod of approval. While I had been in the military, I never quite had the opportunity to become a big gun/rifle person. I'd only learned about the ones I was required to shoot. First the M4. Then the big machine guns, M249, M240, the like. Then the war began, and I'd had some training on handguns. After that, I was sent into the woods. For what? None of us knew.

 

Then they told us. Men, you're going to be snipers.

 

That had been a thrill.

 

"Know much about guns?" He asks.

 

"Not really. Except for what the Army taught me."

 

"Hm. They teach everything and they teach nothing. What are they shootin' these days, the M16 still?"

 

I note the way he talks. It's like were still the world before.

 

"They switched to the M4 some time ago. That's what I was trained on."

 

"I see."

 

The door swings open to reveal Michael. He is noticeably dressed down compared to us two. Just a couple layers on him. But no less well armed. He slings an AR-15 and a handgun I didn't recognize in his waistband. I, too, am armed. The old, fucked up M24 rifle which had been mine since Benning, and also an M9. Seeing them both, I get a little worried. I comment on the weapons, first. "Any chance we'll get company out there?"

 

Robert replies. "Bet you'll think it's BS, but in all the time we've been out here, we've never seen anyone hostile. There's definitely signs of them, the Gilead men. Bullet shells, gum wrappers, the like, but never, have I seen one."

 

I am confused. It's hard to believe him. "How is that possible?"

 

"All this region, along the Massachusetts border, is a dead zone."

 

"Dead zone?" I inquire.

 

"Technically under control of the state, but they don't have the resources to actually keep people here and enforce the law. They conserve their manpower closer to the borders and cities, where people try and flee."

 

"Not that many people make it this far," he adds, somberly.

 

"Ready to go?" asks Michael. "Let's get this over with."

 

Robert chuckles. "City boy getting nervous."

 

"Just a little cold."

 

"Then throw on another layer! Makin' me and my buddy here look weak!"

 

"Where are you from?" I ask him. I bet the north.

 

"Boston."

 

Oof.

 

Boston, I knew, had received some of the worst of the Takeover. What had once been a thriving metropolis had turned to a living nightmare. Not just Boston, but practically all of the cities on the eastern side of the Appalachians had been quickly taken by Gilead. What used to be proud, free cities became massive prison cells, incarcerating millions. I recalled, a long time ago, we got a brief about America's new rulers. "They're turning all the street signs into coordinates, so no one can escape the cities".

 

I try to lighten the mood. Maybe find some common ground. "We're you a Red Sox fan?"

 

"Was I?" He smiles, maybe the first genuine happiness I've seen on anyone's face in as long as I can remember. "Everyone in Boston was a Sox fan. Not sure if you're old enough to remember 2004."

 

To be honest, I had been only six and had no memory of their epic World Series run, but Bostonians probably remembered no matter how old they were. "I remember 2013," I reply. "That was a good one."

 

_That was back when America still had sports teams._

 

_Back when America was free._

 

"And where are you from?" Robert asks. "You've got a...you from California?”

 

Emotions hit me like a train.

 

Suddenly, I see home again. My house. The magnolia tree next to it. I can see the San Diego skyline. The sun shining bright in the summer. The smell of the ocean in the air. The smile of an old friend. The words have locked in my throat. I look down, I cannot answer. However, to my surprise, neither of them notice. They're looking at Michael's AR, inspecting it for something. Finally, the words come out.

 

"San Diego."

 

Their eyes swing to mine.

 

A deep sigh. "Sorry I asked," Robert finally says.

 

Michael, he doesn't say anything, except. "Let's go."

 

We begin to walk, in silence, the crunching snow the only voice. We're about a hundred yards down the trail, when Michael speaks. "Did your family get out?"

 

Again, memories.

 

~~~

 

The young soldier, looks at me with big eyes. "McCreary, right?" Gesturing to my name tape. He has a thick country accent.

 

"Yeah."

 

He holds out the thing in his hand, a beige colored envelope. "Found it mixed up with some papers. Figured I'd find the owner. First name, Aden?"

 

"That's me."

 

Mail call had been just the previous day. Mail call, now, was a huge fucking deal. Most cell phones didn't work anymore, as most cell companies’ HQs had been raided, and either shut down completely or taken over by the new government. At this point, we had pretty much lost contact with the outside world. All we had now, was letters. And most of the Soldiers in the unit had family in Gilead territory. They sure as hell weren't getting letters. And as a result, morale was going down the drain.

 

But somehow, for the first time, I had a letter.

 

From who?

 

First, my name, and address, in the middle. How did this person get it? The return address, I'm blanking on. But the city, and location, I'll always remember.

 

_Cambridge, United Kingdom_

_The McCreary Family_

 

My family.

 

I am frozen with shock. They got out.

 

They're alive.

 

I am so overwhelmed with emotion, but for some reason, it doesn't show. I look back to the soldier, some random private probably sent on the detail.

 

"Thanks." I say.

 

"No problem bud." He disappears, out the door. I don't get his name. I'll never see him again.

 

I am breathless.

 

I find some scissors and tear the letter open like a starving man opening a bag of chips. It crinkles loud. It had been years, so I don't know the exact content of this letter, but it went something like this...

 

_Aden,_

_We just got news you're at Fort Benning alive and safe. You have no idea how relieved we are since learning what happened to 3rd Infantry Division. (it was one of the many units that, violently disbanded. About 75% went to Gilead. The other 25%, dead, missing, or still loyal)_

_You will be thrilled to know, that we made it out by a hair. Your father, me, and your sister made it on a plane to London two days before San Diego was bombed. We had to dig into Heather's college fund to pay for the tickets, but all our paperwork was good, and, somehow they let us out. Refugee life, is, admittedly not easy. There's so many Americans here it is difficult to hold down a job and pay the bills. But, it's okay. We are safe, and we are and together. And most importantly, we love you, and we hope with all of our hearts you can return to us. Now, and forever._

 

_Now and forever._

 

Now, to write back. My response, I wrote a shit-ton, I could remember. The exact words though, long gone. But there was one single, overarching theme.

 

_Family, I'll try my best to survive, but its probably not going to happen. We're trapped. Chances are, I'm going to die either here, or trying to get out. Sorry, I love you all._

 

That had been the low point of the war. The first rebellion of sorts, was over. A ceasefire was declared after the nukes, so the resistance was strangled to the South and the far west. I guess I could have tried to get out. Flee on boat across the Gulf of Mexico, or desert and flee up north. But, one thing. I'd taken an oath to defend the United States of America and its Constitution. I was an American Soldier, not some radical Christian henchmen, for an oppressive regime. After all I'd already been through to that point, I was in way, way too deep.

 

_Mainly, I would not be remembered as a fucking deserter._

 

 

~~~

 

We've been walking for a good fifteen to twenty minutes. The terrain isn't too bad, mostly flat. Save for our steps, the forest is clasped in gentle beauty and silence. No birds yet. Weak sunlight shines through the dying forest, as if it were an open window to heaven. The only thing was the melting snow. Even with boots, it was too easy to slip and fall. My steps are made gingerly. Robert leads us, an ancient hunting rifle held at the low ready. Many of my former brothers in arms had been gun enthusiasts. I think what Robert had was 1920s, or 30s. The ones that saved Europe and Asia. And won the  Second World War. The Greatest Generation. And then modern day, arguably the worst generation.

 

_Now the world had to help save us._

_Oops._

 

Next, me, with the iconic M24, a rifle first released by the Army in, I think it was the late 80s. Michael, brings up the rear, with an AR-15. Robert had whispered to me before we left, "Michael, he ain't the best shot. Takes a while for him sometimes."

 

_City boys._

_I was one too._

 

Anyways, the time in silence allows us to mentally lock in. All of our senses, high like skyscrapers. Anything, a rustle in the brush, the sight of an eye, a moving object. Hunting, I had quickly learned, you had to be in pretty damn good tune with your environment. Otherwise, your ass would starve. I was already hungry. And it was motivating me, for sure.

 

Robert takes a right turn up a small incline, and we follow in tow. He stops at a large gray rock, and looks around. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "This spots usually pretty good. Creek is just down that way," He gestures straight ahead. "And the animals go to drink." _Hell yeah, let's do this shit._

 

"Want to use yours or mine?" I reply.

 

"My trip, my rules." He replies, holding up his brown instrument of death.

 

"Always your rules," Michael says, a little annoyed.

 

Robert begins to set up the bi-pod, a pair of thin black sticks. Me and Michael too, on the ground, creating what was not really a 360-degree security range but should have been. I wonder how well we were camouflaged. Me, definitely. Robert and Michael, not really. The orange parka stuck out like a sore thumb. I dismiss it. Paranoia. I remember Robert's words, "It's been 3 years, and-"

 

Something moves.

 

A streak in the forest.

 

_Something..._

 

Something red.

 

Gunshot.

 

Buzz.

 

A grunt, and I hear what I'm 99% sure is Robert fall over.

 

_Oh fuck. He's hit._

 

More gunshots.

 

_Holy shit its close._

 

_It's right fucking here._

 

Out of the corner of my eye. I see Michael wheel 90 degrees and return fire in the direction of the gunfire, which is straight ahead from me. My ears ring like hell. Unfortunately, the AR-15 packed less punch then its military counterpart, the M4A1. It was only semi-automatic. But...It had to do. He had to suppress, or we'd all be swiss cheese. Michael gets three shots off. Then, it stops.

 

Its jammed.

 

Michael, I can immediately tell, panics. He fusses with the thing. Somewhere far away, Robert groans in pain. "Here!" Damn, I can barely hear my voice over the ringing. "Give it to me, and the mags too! Get him out of the line of fire! I'll get those dickheads!"

 

He tosses me the un-cooperating rifle and three jet black clips.

 

_Troubleshoot, soldier. Troubleshoot!_

 

I switch the thing to safe and charge it. I look in.

 

Double feed.

 

_Motherfucker. Perfect timing._

 

After that, it's instinct.

 

I drop the mag, the two live rounds dropping to the ground.

 

I don't bother putting them back in.

 

Charge 3 times.

 

Re-insert magazine.

 

_Back in business._

 

I spray fast-as-possible single shot into the woodline, praying it doesn’t jam again. And I see a person again. Red.

 

Handmaid, unmistakable.

 

She sees me, and turns straight toward us. She dives, taking shelter under a large log.

 

I spring to my feet, hoping to draw the gunfire away from the non-combatants. Questions circle my mind like race cars. _How many people was I fighting? Who was a fighting? It could be a whole fucking squad for all I knew. We'd all be boned? Did they have drones?_

 

Nonetheless, I'm pulling the trigger.

 

_Ooo, I see one_ , about a hundred meters down range. All black, you couldn't miss it. Guardian. Black vest, black beanie, black everything.

 

_I hated those fucks._

 

_I hit him from the side._

 

He crumples to the ground. And screams.

 

I run forward, and finish him off. _Crack. Crack. Crack._ The rifle clicks. All out.

 

_Bitch._

 

It's all fucking adrenaline, at this point.

 

More gunshots. Sounds like one rifle.

 

Buzzing.

 

Right by my head.

 

_Way too fucking close._

 

I drop. The ground, ice cold. I low crawl as fast as I fucking can to some boulders. Protection. _God damn, where was he? Where the fuck is he?_ Automatic rifle fire. They carried M4s I think. Still, it's one. If there's a God, please, let him be the last one.

 

The ringing subsides, briefly.

 

I hear footsteps, fast, and close. _Oh fuck, he's right on the other side._ I frantically reach for another mag. _Also if there's a God, please let me reload this-_

 

Boom.

 

M24.

 

I see a shadow fall.

 

He falls only ten feet in front of me

 

He's got a hole blown in his face.

 

Silence.

 

Except for the ringing.

 

Everything rings.


End file.
